My body’s a fire Waiting To be burned With your caressing gaze All teased Tormented Nuzzled fantasy Makes me A bad girl Eager to please Your ***** sensitivity Tie me Choke me Tell me Daddy How will you Discipline me today
In my dreams I see him Red palms Outstretched In front of him Slithery skin Peeling From his back Chained Hopeless Floating above Taking a toll On me Like **** hounds And destroys My soul Yet I’m not afraid Of him But humanity That’s worse…
Master Every time I’m asked To obey you I do ‘Cz obedience makes me Feel more & more pleasure In the games We play & the blindfold Sets in me Nervous expectations Of the sweet sparks Sending through my body When you birch me... ...Your Girl
The only time in an ordinary life that dying seems beautiful is when you are a teenager. That beautiful time where your skin is tightly wrapped around you like Saran Wrap and your mind believes every tear you push out of your eyes matters, counts towards something. You cry because your heart got broken? That matters, put it in your portfolio of beautiful broken pieces. You cry because you did not make the team/the grade/the cut/the audition/the clique/the bus … all of these things matter when your book is full of hauntingly empty pages. What nobody tells you is that once you fill your book with these small slights, you have less and less pages left for the big stuff that’s coming. The big stuff that should really fill your book. By the time you have something to write in your big book of beautiful broken pieces, you’ve filled it with so much **** and nonsense that there is nothing left to say. I have nothing for you then. Stop readingStop mother ******* reading. I have nothing. I am ******* empty. I have nothing.
This was the beginning of a short story I am writing. I came back to it a bit later and think it would make a great essay.