pedcandy (pedcandy) wrote in laced_loli,

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From the book, "Crank"

Selection of sorta...non-rhyming poetry by Ellen Hopkins.

This one is called Elevation
Oh, but a whole lot more. They say people who die from ecstasy die from overheating.
Adding speed to the mix accelerates the process because it makes you want to dance until the sun comes up.
The music made me dance. It entered my brain, firing spark plugs and pistons. It revved me to my feet.
The crank was jet fuel, pumping through my veins, propulsion. I shifted into overdrive, motor heating steadily.
I danced with guys, I danced with girls, hotter, closer, melting together like candles in a south-facing window.
Our dance was primitive, beautiful, waves at high tide. Our dance was sensual, sexual, and yet somehow innocent.
Spent calories orbited, raising temperatures. Some drank alcohol. The wise drank water. It tasted as good as champagne.
And then somehow the subject of my birthday came up. Word spread and the mood elevated beyond celebratory.
Gifted with kisses. Tender. Probing. Inviting. Feminine. Masculine. One emptying into the next, eddies in the swollen river.
I kept my eyes closed, absorbing sensation until it screamed for release. So the part that came next seemed very right.
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