Her breast with lace at the neckline, in the darkness of her room. They're full and she feels her own sense of beauty, waits for someone to admire. They never come.

She remembers the feeling of you there, there inside her, pushing and demanding. She knows she never enjoyed it but wanted it anyways. She remembers the way you looked in light but you never took her in anything but darkness. Anything but eyes closed. She can't see herself like this, the way her body moves and submits to yours.

Your smell is heavy in the air, almost pungent, she won't ever forget. She tries to block out her mind but can't.

She thinks of herself slaughtered and raw, put upon a table for inspection, for use. She thinks of cold and goose bumps. The way her skin responds to your every move (they're not caresses). Hair raised. Cringing. She thinks of the blood of thawing meat, the death and liquid of it all. She thinks of families and babies and the distance between your eyes and nose. For a moment she's worried, concerned, but let's it go. She wonders if it's always been this rough. hard.

Memories of past lovers are forced away.

Now, alone, she thinks of herself. the folds and wetness. the way it would feel to masterbate again. The vulgarity. She's disgusted by her sex, refuses the idea and thinks of words instead.