There are whispered words of promises not meant to be kept constantly ringing in my ears, assuring me that the hands that I did not place on my body belong there right now, assuring me that this was just what people my age did, assuring me that I was making right by doing wrong.

She bites my neck, She leaves marks I would cover with hoodies and sweaters in the warm spring heat for the next few weeks. She left me with confusion in the back of my head that would last oh so much longer than that. She leaves me with the sting of hair pulled and the smell of smoke on my clothes, the light too dim to see exactly where her hands were but I knew perfectly well what She wanted. 

She assures me She always got what She wanted. 

She assures me and assures me, She tells me I'm beautiful. She tells me I'm perfect and delicious and She just wanted to eat me whole. She goes on and on about the way my waist curves, of how my body feel but I block out the feeling of her hands and pray She'll hurry up. I'm not sure what to do with my hands. I'm not sure what I'm doing on the bed. She thinks my innocence is cute and places my shaking hands on her chest and She smiles like someone would smile at a four year old trying to say a big word.

I hate her.

I love her.

I'm confused.

Her teeth are startlingly white against her lips, lipstick smudged on her mouth, mascara running down her cheeks and She's an angel. She was an angel just as all angels on earth before her: cruel in the sweetest of ways. 

She leaves me with lipstick on my collar and the faint scent of whiskey on my shirt. She leaves with something of mine that She can never give back to me, something that I didn't know I had wanted to keep locked up safely on her bedpost and her back pocket. She leaves me, and that was somehow the worst thing She had done that night despite all the other ways She hurt me. She leaves me. She doesn't look back. 

I didn't know her name.