Dance to This [kth]

t w e n t y • s e v e n

ミ★
twenty-seven
❝strained thoughts❞
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For the size of the room we are in, Joon's voice is insignificant; the words escape him almost too low for me to hear, and I somewhat wish I hadn't heard him. The panic that overcomes me wants so badly to physically present itself through my cheeks and trembling mouth, but my subconscious is fighting for me. I bite on my inner cheek, and make a small fist in my hand to hide my reaction from him.

"W-What?" I ask, just as lowly, blissfully clueless.

The strength to not forfeit myself is coming from my peripheral vision. Behind Joon are the various full-length reflections of myself; my reflective presence is doubling the feeling of the towering stature he has over me, and I find solace in pretending that I am a one woman army standing against him.

Chills plague me at the feeling of his fingertip trailing up from my shoulder, over my collarbones, and to my neck. He furrows his eyebrows down at my skin, rubbing his pointer finger gently against the concealer that was supposed to hide my other reality without him. I feel like I am losing control of the narrative I'm creating.

His touch is all over me as he inspects his discovery. I squeeze my eyes closed and turn away from him to ignore the feeling. It doesn't feel right. Just an hour ago it was Taehyung who was touching me like this. . . his soft, delicate, meaningful skinship knows no bounds in contrast to Joon's lustful upon. The mere shift in pressure and caress significantly changes the intent of such touch. . . I scrunch my nose and try to turn away from him, but his fingers dig down into my shoulder to force me at his will.

"Your neck," he repeats himself forcefull. "You've covered bruises with makeup."

His observant words are almost sinister the way they fall from his lips: fragile, sincere, conniving.

I open my eyes and fight a swift tug of my shoulder away from his grasp to take a step away from him. His touch against my skin was beginning to burn me from the outside in, threatening my insides to induce vile. The feeling of his fingertip continuously against my exposed skin gives my throat a burning sensation, but I swallow away the urge to become sick at the thought. When I look back at my many selves in the reflections, each one has irritated skin and discoloration adorned on her neck. I catch my glimpse a bit delayed in each reflection I turn to, encouraging myself to take control of the paintbrush.

I have no choice but to confirm what he has already seen. I fall small, gentle, scared. . . for him.

"Y-Yes," I breathe.