c4c, comrade for comrade

if you love me you'll fuck me with my boots on

you can't fit your fingers under my gas mask seal but it's so hot when you try

I breathe harder when you radio check and I can't hide it under the squelch

I know the cops have UCs in the crowd. That's how they know it feels so good to hold gloved hands it's a crime.

We never really knew what it was to see the deliberate sway of hips until we hung this much kit on our belts.

I don't know if it's safe to loosen my ballistic vest out here, but it's not safe for me to keep it this tight around you. The sighs get stuck behind my heaving breasts.

Under that balaclava I can't tell if you're dragging out the eye contact with me because you know me or you're suspicious of me, but you can come closer if you want to make sure.

Only the windshield and the rearview mirror can see my flushed cheeks as I speed away from the action. If you were here I wouldn't stop at deblocking. Neither would you.

You dearrested me so quickly. But now I feel like my heart is in indefinite detention, and the keys to my cell are just behind the purse of your lips.

We used to watch the space station go by on hot starry nights, our skin bared to the intimate air. But there's something tantalizingly illegal about giving the Marshals' infrared-equipped Cessna a little show.

I loved the sweet nothings you whispered to me before. But I love the sweet nothing when you safely and calmly handle a firearm even more.

I lied a little bit when I asked you to rinse my eyes one more time. I just wanted you to cradle my head and shoulders against your thighs, in your deft hands, for longer.

When you evacuated the injured I realized I couldn't stop yearning for you. I'll be on the next ride out, my tears streaming through the ugly Sudecon residue, running down my cheeks..

When you threaten the fash I want to cry out like I've been struck. A part of me wants to weep and sing with pleasure watching you deal with them, but I put it all into being a whirlwind beside you in the fray.

Can you see the dumpster fire reflected in my eyes? Does it say the things to you I am desperately trying to express and can't, in this increasingly intense, endless night?

When you looked at me and squeezed the bolt cutters, I felt something break inside me. Something came loose, got free.

"The strong, silent type" has become something that describes all of us. I love it when you shut the fuck up about things that didn't happen.

The cops don't know that every insult, every line I toss at them outside at jail support, is a message tied to a rock I wish I could throw into your cell. I want you to know I'm waiting for you. I always will.