You should be here
waiting for me in bed
when I get home, sir.
Just an idea.

Do you have any clue
how hard it is for me
to focus at work
with my ******* slick
from thoughts of you?

It's hard to act calm
and professional
when I'm thinking
of you entering me
from behind, pushing
into me as you pull
my hair and own me.

Nobody at work knows
that when I smile it's not
to be polite, but because
of the secret dirtiness
I keep covered inside
that none of them
would ever guess.

It's only because I am
thinking of you,
contemplating licking
those secret places
only I know of, that I can
make it through the day.

You should be here
waiting for me in bed
when I get home, sir.
Just an idea.

I'm restless and *******
but ******* isn't even really right
because I'm not angry,
I'm just not remotely content.
Frustrated, but it's more than that
and I'm unable to put into words
the inability to fake more
enthusiasm or happiness.
I'm not ok with where I'm at
not just in life, but literally,
geographically.
I want to pick up and run,
run far away, fill up the tank
and drive until I'm on empty,
and I'm not sure if I'm referring to gas.
Where would I end up
and could I find some semblance
of an adventure there,
something to kickstart
me back to life.

We arrive home
and I see you look over there.
I've been so happy
just spending time with you.
It's been just the two of us,
a welcome escape.
It's not often this happens,
when we get time alone
without interruption
from texts or a phone call.
But tonight we are free
and we have the most
mundanely grand plans.
And I look forward to them
with utmost glee.
But then it happens.
We pull in and you say
you're going there
"just for a minute."
I'm not fooled,
it's never just a minute.
Our plans are derailed,
I'm left to bring in the groceries
alone.
And do the dishes,
alone.
We said we'd tackle them
together,
tag-team the massive pile.
Yet here I am,
alone.
And I get left feeling like
a complete and utter *****
because I'm upset at the fact
that you want to go home
to tell your parents good night.
I just want this to be your home.
And I'm afraid
it never will be.
You'll always have to go there
and we'll always have some
sort of interruption.
And I'll never have you
all to myself, never,
and sometimes I'll be left
feeling completely *******
alone.

A casual conversation turned wrong in my head
and you haven't a clue the pain you've caused.
Fun facts about ourselves is what we seek.
               Tell me five things I like
you request
and I rattle off a dozen items, categories.
                Now you,
I playfully demand.
                Five things about me. Go.
You spit out two quickly,
then stutter back to the first.
I watch, confused, as you falter.
A third stumbles out and I flinch inwardly.
Cute clothes? I ******* hate clothes.
I have no clue why you'd say that,
pick something so completely
    off
as a gift for me.
You're actually really hard to buy for
you try to reason with me.
And I'm offended.
I lay out a myriad of options quickly
that anyone with a passing knowledge
could pick up on.
Any item to do with
literature
art
crafting
cooking
would do.
How do you not know this?
I thought you knew me better than anyone?
You know that I have this weird obsession
with globes, can't resist running my fingers
over their surfaces, dreaming of traveling
all along them in reality.
And yet you make no mention of them.
Or typewriters. Or sewing machines.
My two biggest gifts I've been begging for.
And I am heartbroken.
It has nothing to do with material goods.
I thought you knew me,
and apparently you don't.
And I realize also, you couldn't
name even five things.

Most words get casually tossed into the air,
gently carried away by their impermanence,
lack of true depth or meaning.
This is the majority of conversation.

Some words stumble out unwillingly,
forced out over tongue and through teeth.
These words are harder to coerce into being,
yet too heavy to be kept inside.  

And then there are words flung out innocently,
born of a benevolent background
or intending no substantial meaning at all.
But the implied connotation is hurtful nonetheless.

Or the words haphazardly spit out
in a weakened moment of anger,
and the regret runs deeper than the thought
put behind the decision to hurl them around

These are the words that settle into minds,
the ones that flop out and lie there,
panting from the exertion of the pain caused,  
intentional or not.

Be wary of the words you bring into existence.

I wish I knew just how to confess
the sickness happening in my head,
but I have no clue how to start
because I honestly have no idea
how this whole mess began.

Each bite I take is precious,
a tasty present I allow myself
only once I've reached a state
of pure unavoidable hunger.
And each bite is torture,
for I know each one will come back
to haunt me, taunt me.

I walk into the bathroom,
look down at the toilet,
brush my hair off to the side,
and begin my clandestine routine.
I despise myself for this practice,
but it is nothing compared to
the repugnance I feel when
looking at myself in a mirror.
The few minutes of disgust
are worthless in relation to
the elation I feel when I see
those calories expelled from my body,
unable to be absorbed into my system,
added onto me as even more fat.

It's an up and down mind battle.
I hate myself for each action I take,
but am unable to help it. I try not to
eat, but sometimes I just get so
**** hungry I cave to my cravings,
regretting each torturous morsel
as it passes between my lips.
A trip to the bathroom, then,
and it'll all be better soon I guess.
But I'm hungry again much too soon
and the terrible circle begins anew.

I don't know how to ask for help,
am far too ashamed to admit
these disgustingly illicit deeds.
And for now I get to see
the numbers on the scale decrease.
Getting help would halt
the progress I've worked so hard for.

It's 3:30 in the morning
and this always happens
on the nights we stay apart.
I'm suddenly up in the middle of it,
wide awake for no reason at all,
sleep eluding me until
it's almost time to rise anyway.
I can only guess that my body
is subconsciously yearning
for the trace of yours against it,
and my mind would rather have me
not sleep at all
than to peacefully slumber
away the darkness
without your presence.
It's 3:30 in the morning
and I need to get back to sleep,
so I roll over and try to pretend
I have your limbs wrapped around me
in your usual manner,
the best kind of full body embrace.
My imagination is no substitute
for the warmth of you.  
It's 3:30 in the morning
and I lie awake, restless,
unable to stop thinking of you.