With a hungry look in his eyes he tilts his head and whispers "is that ***** nice and wet for me?"

I smile.  
Nodding silently I bite my lip.  
I stifle a soft chuckle with a feigned moan.

He will not know that his fingers prune from tears; my **** is simply crying for someone that is not him.

1.) Waking up alone Saturday morning means not having to get breakfast hung-over for anyone but yourself.
2.) Cleaning your room is optional.
3.) Books are so much better at pillow talk.
4.) Taking the stairs will do more wonders for your body than elevator hookups ever will.
5.) It is a blessing to have no one but yourself to debate with over Netflix selections on a Sunday afternoon.
6.) Choosing true friendship over a hasty ****** will always be the best decision.
7.) Music provokes the heart when you’re with someone, but provokes the soul when you’re not.
8.) Crying over things other than men gives you a better understanding of life’s meaning.
9.) Sometimes you discover things you thought were lost forever when searching long and hard for your key, because without it you have no where else to sleep.
10.) Contrary to the hand of another, a pen will not let go.

Perhaps the multitude of crows atop the trees were mourning all that could have been, that night we stayed out listening to them caw.  I followed you back inside, leaving behind my cigarette, a thousand words unspoken, and feelings I’ll never wish to revisit.

There is a can of cheap tobacco
Sitting patiently on your desk
Cracked open on occasion;
Ready to be chewed up
And spit back out.

You carefully destroyed me

Uncovered the most tender parts of my core with detective kit compliments

Places where I never let anyone feed.

You gnawed on the clitoral soul that I thought I buried years ago

Until I lay sprawled beneath you, no pulse.

Necrophiliacs like us best when we cannot match their heaving breaths

Or reach out to wipe the sweat off their brow, induced from fear of poor performance.

How unfortunate for you that I am an empty casket.

Accustomed to cremation, I turned to ashes upon your final assault.

Try to grasp me again, I’ll slip through your fingers.

There isn’t an urn strong enough to keep a woman condensed

Doe eyed girl, well-versed in pretending
Wolf toothed musician, jaded by poisonous prey.
Bundled up in three dollar beers,
They weather the storm
And cremate their words.

He devours the snow upon which I bleed
Consumes then strays from every part of me
Yet I stagger back weak, so effortlessly
Keeping the prey close; the efficient way to feed.

You don’t get anywhere in this world by stepping around eggshells, so don’t shut up until you’re up to your ankles in chicken abortions and notoriety.

I would have nothing to write about had I not taken the motto my father raised me by seriously.

“**** anyone who doesn’t respect you”.

We know when we meet someone who we could spend the rest of our lives with.  It just hits you like a ton of bricks.  I mean, yeah, I loved my last boyfriend and we told each other we wanted to grow old together, but deep down at the pit of my stomach I knew that it was all *******.  I knew I would never actually end up with him, it just feels so good to say that at the time.  It makes sleeping next to that person just a little nicer, it makes ******* in their mouth just a little easier, it provides this false sense of security that you know is false but feels so good to temporarily embrace.  In fact, it may feel better than actually loving someone.  It lets you to make promises that for a period of time allow you to wake up and get ready for the day without hating yourself.  It allows you to say things that are totally crazy but no one denies.  When you’re really in love, or when you get slapped in the face by compatibility, everything you do and feel has genuine meaning, the dreams that you never bothered learning how to enact become a reality.  Finding that connection, that paradigm of all that is right in the world, can be a curse.

We finally unwound
After hours in my bed
A thin film of your ego peeled off and clung to my skin
Asymptomatic…I wish
You spread through me like a wildfire
That burns with every breath.

And after knowing you for only a few weeks, we knitted our failures into a heinously tacky quilt. It scratched against our bare skin when we spent the night making love underneath it and kept us warm when we went outside to puff away the day's disappointments. The quilt got bigger everyday because you and I stopped caring about anything that was not each other. You, swallowed up by a sea of shortcomings and I, mummified by a warmth that blinded us from reality, became strangers. Now you are just a patch in the new quilt I am creating from battle wounds. It is thick and vibrant, even more coarse than the last. Underneath it, no one can touch me but myself.

And I’ll say “slouch while you can my child and stay out late,
Because once you get older they make you stand up straight”.  
My thighs are decorated with a million cuts and lines,
But you should see the stretch marks on my spine.

Forgiveness.  Is it an act or is it a state?  You have wronged me so many times that for me, it has become a state, a constant state.  I don’t even feel the cathartic aftermath of “letting go” anymore because now my forgiveness is preemptive.  You are my father; we sons and daughters are conditioned to love you unconditionally.  But to what extent?  To our expense?  

Love is not synonymous with loyalty.  My own shortcomings have made me sure of this, for I have loved another while making love to another.  When is it my turn to turn on you?  When do I get to scream, and you listen?  I’ve been screaming my whole life but your own self-hatred has made you deaf indefinitely to anything but a voice that spews from the depths of your pain, but tis a voice that is not your own, much like the one that exists inside me, regurgitating your dreams at the dinner table.  I will not become a soul disfigured by the fear of your disapproval.

Have I become the epitome of hypocrisy?  I preach self-expression to those who know nothing but their own self-suppression, though when I am with you I hide my spirit, gone are all traces of a free soul, I imprison my spirit in fear and submission.  A man of command and a child of madness, face to face trying their **** best to love one another, but only one has given up trying to understand the other.