She is the sheltered, spoiled, bratty girl next door, and though she is those things, she is just like you.
In those defining and inglorious traits. In that you both live in palatial estates owned by your often-absent and always-distracted parents. And once more, in that though you passed the age of 18 years ago, you remain.
In rooms cleaned by maids. And in lives without bills or worries — labors or chores.
Foreign to you, though those particular cruelties are, you still meet. At the border of your father’s estate and her’s.
Not for a secret and torrid meeting of lips and gazes, but instead to battle.
Wrestling and writhing.
Hurting and hurling one another down to the perfectly trimmed grass.
Each of you stripping off your expensive clothes in silence, before in a sudden explosion of action and reaction you together lunge.
Body into body.
Breast into breast.
Just as you have for years. Just as you have since you were younger. Neither of you even remembering why you first fought, or who won that battle these many years hence.
For it is never the winner of your engagements that matters. Never the moment when one of you begins to cry and the other releases that sticks in your normally thoughtless minds.
Only the feeling of your goosebump-covered forms pressing together that lingers and haunts.
Only the bliss of your luxury-weakened muscles aching as you rage and resist each other’s every shift and counter.
Without skill or training. You, just as she, venomless though you remain cruel. Weak and in many ways toothless, though with each other you feel strong.
You and she feeding each other’s confidence with every engagement. And dreaming of each other each time you sleep.
And though when the two of you fight there is no softness. No empathy. Only pain and violence. Still, you have caught each other smiling.
Between the moans and howls. Betwixt the groans and whimpers.
Your every clash catharsis.
Your every tangle a plunge into the deep.