There is a blue stain from my pajamas blotched upon the white wall from where you pushed me up against. From when your hips gridded against my thighs, a graph with linear equations that doubled and doubled and tripled. From when your fingers found the furrows inside my skin, planting seeds I am eager yet scared to see blossom.

There is a blue stain from my pajamas specked upon the wall, from when our hunger was too ravenous for even the wolves I tried to suppress. From the sweat I licked off and tasted sweeter than gumdrops coated with honey. From when my legs found your waist, squeezing, Medua’s hair demolishing a man too good, too tasty. From where your palms collided with my wrists, blacks and blues and yellows shooting through closely knit pores.

There is a blue stain from my pajamas splattered upon the wall, and I pass it with a smirk, feeling the presence of you. What will be our next victim, I wonder

drunk *** is more logical,
you moan things you could never say sober,
your moves fumble but end with awkward
names shout out and nails
filled with blood and dead skin cells of people you
don’t want to
remember.
drunk *** makes more sense to me. because i feel more
****, more alive, yet more devastated.
so when i’m ******* you, i’m trying to ****
out the problems i can’t seem to
erase.
don’t take it personally. well, that’s what people try
to tell me. yet i take everything personally.
(i’m working on it)
i’ll keep having drunk ***,
and trying to mend the bruises that i crave for,
trying to bandage the heart that i can’t find the
beat for
anymore.
people tell me they don’t understand why i’m crying,
and all i can say is,
same here. i don’t get it
either.

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
    So true a fool is love that in your will,
    Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.