After our kissing war, I broke off from him, realizing we had started drifting into a battle in which neither of us would win.
I felt the turning inside of me, the butterflies, the closed eyes.
The opening of passages not intended. The singing of songs without trust.
But it felt good, to let out the proverbial mating call and give in to the senses.
But the blood and gore was too much. I had to pull away.
"Are you ok?" he asks me as I lay next to him on his bed, holding my hand to my face, staring vacantly at the ceiling.
My arm aches from holding the sword too long, my heart heavy from guilt.
Perhaps we should have stopped the carnage sooner.
