Whore
Sometimes you find joy allowing strangers to rip you apart in just a few hours. You smell their lies as you kiss their lips from being with another woman. My part here is done. She undresses herself slowly first looking down to the moist that he left behind. She missed the garbage once again that stores her sins. Her bath is boiling to suffocation. Lavender is her favorite repentance sense. She selflessly sways her body in just to get a taste of hell. A blinded conscious; she tries to remember whose taste in her mouth was the last to kiss her tonight. Nothing satisfies her carnal urges. Meaningless strokes deep inside penetrates her mind more than unfulfilled pleasure. She can feel him release his alibi he will tell his wife. She dreams for someone to be here. Temporary names always fade. She needed someone who would know what time of the night she up from terror. She needed a cold blood killer. A stalker. Someone obsessed with her kind of behavior. She wanted to be the universe. She wanted a happy ending. But sometimes it ends with the spreading of two legs. She uses them for slowly painful highs just to get her to the next hiker. She loved living in that place where she could feel the world revolve under her feet. She noticed the leaves move to the wind as silent angels blew them. She wanted an affair. She wanted to take something that took years to build but seconds to end. She took pride in being needed. Being the other woman was good for ego. After fall this is what you call a whore.
Copyright © Breana Swain | Year Posted 2014
|