Poetic Intercourse

I thought for todays brief enlightenment I would share sweet words about love, hate and sex- the kinda words that make you briefly want to vomit before truely accepting their underlying meaning.

I like to make people think.

So let's get intimate shall we?

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare. You are staring into my eyes: my eyes that so easily deceive. You claim you find love in them, but how did you manage to find it behind all the bloodshot memories?

I have cums stains on my shirt. Did you notice them? I bet you did and it made you second guess yourself. They aren't yours baby; I suck [at life].

I wish you could tell me what you are thinking. Your mind is so beautiful, so uncorrupt.

Before you found me I was a ravaging she-devil with one finger in the air and one hand clenched in a fist of rage. And when you found me I was shit. I was a worthless ball of nothingness laying lifeless on the floor next to an empty prescription bottle and a bloody razor blade. After you found me: death. What was left of me died inside, it died while mourning your perfect radiance, you are gorgeous and I am the birth of something beautiful, yet never magnificent.

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare.

D I R T Y   S E C R E T S

I sit here and realize that, I could lay in your arms of filth forever. I can't understand why but there's something about the way your sweat running down my body feeds on my vulnerability. I wish I could tell you how beautiful you are, but we both know that's not what you want to hear. I swear that underneath the whiskey on your breath and the moans that echo in the smoke filled air, I hear your heart sing a song. But there's no reason for me to tell you that now, I'm pulling my pants up and grasping for my hoops on the floor. You smack my ass and sneer in my direction. I glance around into a room full of nothing but lies and dirty secrets we've managed to keep swept under the rug. And the truth is, it's been so long, that I merely remember the reason we keep them hidden. Maybe it's her, maybe it's him; nothing can truly be for certain. And it's hard to walk around with your head in the air when all you have is a guilty conscience weighing it down. It occurs to me that sooner or later this whole fantasy world where we've convinced ourselves it's no one but us will crash, burn, and collide. Eventually the dust will be blown back in my face and I'll get a taste of what it feels like when you realize you've just sacrificed all you had for a little bit of nothing. In the meantime, there you'll be still holding strong reminding me I've left my panties on the couch, as you reassure me it'll be okay on my way out the door.

And mind you, that yes these are pieces I have written- feel free to bash, critically acclaim, throw shoes, or maybe by the grace of good leave something nice. *hands over vomit towels*