It’s eleven a.m.
I’m in yesterday’s slip
I awake to the sound of the dog licking his lips
He’s in the room
At the edge of the bed
With an unobstructed view of my delectable head
I follow his stare
Which travels down my hips
His stomach churns, his saliva drips
Suffice it to say
If he's not swiftly fed
Yours truly here will soon be dead
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 5:01 PM UTC
It’s eleven a.m.
I’m in yesterday’s slip
I awake to the sound of the dog licking his lips
He’s in the room
At the edge of the bed
With an unobstructed view of my delectable head
I follow his stare
Which travels down my hips
His stomach churns, his saliva drips
Suffice it to say
If he's not swiftly fed
Yours truly here will soon be dead
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