She wants neither soft hands nor kind words, wants nothing that could be mistaken for less than this. The harsh dig and the breath out of her lungs like she's been punched. With it, her back bows, her head driving into the pillows as she physically rolls, lifts. Arched up like her bones twist inside her skin.

With it her fingers hold to her hair, still, gripping hard. Open, unable to be anything less than so. Each cry pitches, louder, higher. Holding onto her like she was breath itself.