Stop it

” I watch him clicking through songs trying to find one that will make his feelings shift. But we all know that’s not going to happen. The truth is he loves in a way that scares me.”


Yesterday I wanted it, today I’m tired and that look of desperation on his face is like fucking a sad puppy dog. I tell him to go tip some bottles with the other whores he converses with, but that just makes it worse. I call her but make him think it’s a dude because seeing him so helpless revs my engine. Hey he got a good fuck, this is what he’s left  me with. Someone’s getting hurt around here, maybe both of us. So I bring up old shit to make myself feel better while examining the bite marks he left all over me. In the old days I’d have covered up, but these days his possession gives me bad feelings in public, and what’s a writers life without a little suffering. I could lay in bed and act like I’m all his, that he can have me whenever he wants…

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