Bend me over and take me from behind.
My palms on the window sill, and yours against my body until,
our breath steams up every surface in the room as the night stands still.
Take your time.
Moving like a lazy ocean's wave teasing the shore, leaving me gasping for more,
one hand pulling my hair back and the other holding me tight, do not let go.
Blow my mind.
Let the beat of your heart make me grind, real fine, touch me in places no one else can find,
as beads of sweat fall from my forehead onto the face leaving me momentarily blind.
Make me moan.
Turn me around, wrap my legs over your hips and lift me right off the ground,
and as my arms grasp your neck, kiss me, before I could make a sound.
Hear me groan.
As our tongues wrestle, let my ears feel the deep growls escaping your throat,
use your every skill to give me a thrill, unleash that ****** warrior within and let him gloat.
Explode!
While my nails scratch the path to heaven on your back, and we both lose track,
and my eyes look into yours watching me watching you come to a perfect ******.
Oh, God!
Stay inside me as I shudder in ecstatic response, with my head buried in your shoulder,
caress and burn me with your macho warm embrace as the night keeps getting colder.
Smile.
A naive, genuine smile which speaks for all the feelings unsaid,
as you carry me over our discarded clothes onto the uncreased bed.
Dream.
As I watch you sleeping whilst running my fingers gently through your hair,
looking peaceful, content, mesmerizing, spellbinding, I can't help but stare.
Stay...

I'm craving a man-hug tonight,
initiated by strong arms picking up my under weight body
letting me believe I'm re-enacting the lift from ***** dancing.
And as those arms hold me close
I would bury my face in his neck
where after shave meets his soft pulse and the warmth of my breath.
This hug would be so tight,
tight enough to squeeze the pain out of my soul
and be incredibly protective at the same time
beating away the nightmares of reality late at night.
A hug that draws out all the tears that should have been cried
until my eyes run dry
and start shedding all the rejection accumulated throughout this plight.
An unconditional man-hug with its ends free,
one not subjected to a **** in my mouth
a cigarette
*****
a cigarette
couple of poems
insomnia
and a cold bed.
I crave for a man-hug that will liberate me
from the pathetic standards I've set for myself,
of how I should be treated before handing a piece of me in exchange.
One that would numb the little voice in my head
which goes on and on
about self-deprecating *******
bundling together all the mistakes made over the years
and spanking my self-confidence
until it dresses up in a short skirt and high heels
and runs into the arms of a narcissist *****.
A man-hug to step in and save the day
when loneliness breaks in,
and murders empowerment, independence and positivity in their sleep,
then opens the door to insecurity and fear,
who robs all hope,
leaving behind intolerable darkness.
I crave for a man-hug that follows through to the end
with stability and consistency,
like mom's cooking or my best friend,
or daddy's instant reaction to defend.
One that's tangible and attainable
without twirling my fingers around forgotten jewellery,
phone messages
or a drunk memory
just to remind myself what it felt like,
but only to be reminded that it can never be felt again.
Though I'm craving a man-hug tonight
I will have no luck.
Because anything with "man" in front of it,
will always just be a ****.

Uno, dos, tres,
here we ****** go again.
Mexican blood running through a Texan accent,
yet playing the same old game.
All credit for our first kiss goes to *****,
but the second, now that was fate.
You happen to pick up the phone,
when I called that night, quite late.
Weeks later bumping into you at Morrisons,
and on the way back in the bus?
I don't spend my time looking into crystal *****,
but, coincidence much?
Cuatro, cinco, seis,
where on earth did you learn to Sext... (text)?
Mr. Polite to Mr. Passionate,
leaving me on the edge not knowing what to expect next.
The hearty deep laugh followed by
shockingly ****** expertise,
and I'm hypnotized by that shower gel,
which makes your body smell like rich Earl Grey tea.
With eyes glued to those macho tattoos,
and *** flowing through my brain,
straddling you was ecstatic,
wearing not a lot more than a gold chain.
Siete, ocho, nueve,
when it ended why did you stay?
You held me,
and was still there the next day.
You hugged me,
in that warm, tight, protective kind of way,
and kept messaging back,
even after you went away.
Now all this has left me confused,
frankly I'm utterly bemused.
How ****** up am I to suspect
'being treated well' as a twisted ruse?
Diez,
hope this isn't the beginning of an end.
'Cause if you hadn't noticed,
I'm already a bit of a mess.

Ever had the feeling of being trapped in a glass box
with the air slowly running out, with every breath?
In sun, rain, snow and storm, the box gets dark or warm
but what you can do always remains the same.
Have you just simply wanted to walk away or break free?
To travel the world taming Lion cubs and petting great white sharks?
To wake up to a sunrise in a Dutch farm and watch it set over the Mediterranean sea?
To teach children in Thailand or India?
To salsa on the streets of Mexico or be blinded by the lights in Dubai?
Have you ever wanted to be border-less?
To not be punished for being born in a country
where the sun is hot and people are poor?
Have you ever just wanted to work, get a place, pay taxes,
and not ignore the growling of your stomach
so your 5 pound takeaway stretches over 3 days
postponing the date to buy the next food stock?
Have you ever wanted to check your bank account
without having your fingers crossed, because
even though you know the exact balance
you hope by some miracle it will be more?
Have you prayed for immigration to back the hell off
leaving you to make a living without risking deportation?
Have you ever got tired of playing by the rules when
the Albanian Mafia and Walmart
makes more money per hour than what you'd make in a lifetime, or two?
With heart aches and emotional games, and
attending Sunday mass becoming more of a cliché,
with rejection and doors closed,
at the cost of owning a brown passport,
with your head spinning and back against the wall,
have you wondered what life wants from you at all?
To all the women being trafficked for ***,
and the children slaving away spinning Persian carpets,
tonight it's too cold to snow outside my glass box.
Inside, it's too sad to cry...

Tonight, my snowed in heart has frozen.
It's numb, lost and broken.
With minutes left, yet no one to call,
this bachelorette lifestyle has taken its toll.
Search for greener pastures loses its charms,
on nights like this when the bed is cold.
Staring at a picture of a stranger,
I can simply sense the danger,
of rushing into a compromise,
by settling for my parents' choice,
of whom I should spend the rest of my life,
and all I can do is.... sigh.
Alcohol, an ideal solution,
but my room is painstakingly dry.
Several lighters lying around, but not a single cigarettes,
I could just cry.
Reminiscing a walk in town,
where commercialism attempts to sell love,
tying the end of Christmas to the start of Valentines,
and why I cannot afford any of the above.
Having gone astray,
losing my right to pray,
noticing how when they stay,
I end up walking away,
makes me suspect a divine intervention,
threatening a life of damnation,
with no means of escape,
because it's too late.
I'm in critical need of a saviour,
a hero, a warrior,
to feed my patriarchal upbringing,
to be that **** Prince Charming.
Enough good looks,
to keep me hooked,
and anaesthetize my heart,
for the inevitable ripping apart.
Wit enough to hypnotize my brain,
so the pain won't stop me from loving again,
and yes, that is what I want to do,
until this life is through.
My snowed in heart could do with some warmth,
someone, light a fire, soon...

'Brussels sprouts'...
The only healthy addition on a plate of Christmas dinner,
because even the carrots are tempered in butter,
but I never serve myself any,
'cause I couldn't give a **** about being healthy.
At one point I was eating roast potato with mashed potato
and everything else was covered in gravy, so...
I'm a very bad girl who avoid what's good.
I stay up real late and snack on junk food.
On night outs I drink to get drunk,
mixing all the spirits to heighten my *****.
Liver abused,
dressed to ******,
dancing like a stripper on the Vegas strip,
grinding, shaking, dropping, moving, all hard to resist.
Then there's the social smoking, and a few smoked alone.
Hush, about the latter. No one needs to know.
All the Friday nights, the strange men, in my bed.
What am I looking for? 'Cause it's sure as hell ain't ***.
Boycotting church for the past few weeks,
but my mom doesn't know so don't let it leak
that I'm a bad girl, that I've changed, that I'm lost,
that in trying to find myself, the soul was the ultimate cost.
That naive, innocent girl who ran into the world with open arms,
appears to have misplaced that certain charm.
She stares back through the mirror eyes clouded with pain,
because each time I tried to stand up society struck again.
So, I'm a very bad girl. Really very bad.
I spend my time wrestling guilt, and it drives me mad.

It all started with mixing Tequila and Sambuca last Friday night.
Then I noticed him, busting some classic moves on the dance floor.
Soon we are dancing, grinding, kissing, laughing, dancing, kissing,
he's even drinking out of my half finished cup of water, he's smiling.
"I'm a Royal Marine, not an Army boy!" he corrects. "A Commando."
We both even have the same phone! Coincidence? I don't think so.
Beads of sweat dripping from his hair onto his flawless face and neck,
yet, he smells oh so divine, "it's Gucci Guilty Intense", he explains.
I blurt out, "Hope this won't be a waste of your time, 'cause I'm not
going to sleep with you tonight!" He says, "All right", and smiles.
Mixed signals, cold bed phobia, pure drunkenness combined,
I offer him, "It's late. You can spend the night at mine, I don't mind."
"Just Scott, you won't remember the rest, it's long and complicated",
later he adds, "Good luck trying to find me without my name!"
"I'm Twenty One." "That's so young", I exclaim and he frowns.
He's cocky yet witty, and also very pretty, so I let my dignity drown.
Taking him in my mouth until he explodes like a loaded gun,
my duty to the nation's hunkiest hero was well and truly done.
"I joined two days after my eighteenth birthday", said he with pride.
"My vacation's over. I'm leaving on Sunday to Poole". I sighed.
I spent the entire night insomniac, with my head throbbing to the beat
of his obliviously, peacefuly sleeping exhaling and inhaling speed.
Close enough to feel the heat of his body, yet a million miles away,
him dreaming and I reminiscing, both awaiting the dawn of a new day.
Skipping the "thank you", "goodbye", hug or phone number, he says,
"See you around maybe", holding a rather deceitfully seductive gaze.
"Scott, we're never going to see each other again", I answer bluntly.
Mirroring my sad smile in reply, minus the sadness, he left promptly.