I hover with my face just above his, I can’t trust myself to touch him in the moment because I want to crash into and through him with teeth and bone and blood and the hardness of clashing steel. And even though I am soft, really, all tender and smooth flesh that gives and bends, I am afraid that I will really hurt him.
I feel like I am snarling at him, breathing into his open mouth, watching his tongue tentatively reach out to survey the damage already done to him. I’m not sure if I make any sound, but the animal noise is there in my throat and a thrumming is loud in my ears. I hear a whining engine noise in my head, creaky brakes trying to slow a huge machine that wants to barrel over the top of everything in its way, giant cogs forging ahead under load, weighty and unstoppable. I bare my teeth and try to quell the aggression until it’s manageable, under enough control that I can trust it.
He watches me, restrained, both flinching and wanting to reach for it, willing it to obliterate him. And if I wait long enough he will crane his neck to get to me, to invite me back in, and even as I nudge against him, I see him screw his eyes shut and try not to pull away when I shove myself into him again. It’s like he forgets, in those moments of reprieve, how relieved he was when I stopped.
But he hates it when I stop.