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All irrelevant in the end,
Love, life, ******.
All there is, is the prospect
Of emptiness.

"I doubt I'll ever love again."
That's what I told her that night
When she showed me out of her
House after meaningless pleasure.

...

When we said goodbye,
You smiled falsely and quickly
Showed me out. I never understood
Why we were so unhappy that night.

When we ******, I felt mediocre.
I presume that you felt similar.
The posture of your body said it all,
You were acting. No genuine emotion.

When we kissed, I felt nothing.
You felt nothing. It was meaningless,
Pleasure without substance.
Ecstasy without catharsis.

When you ripped your dress off,
A moonlight sonata played
From an old radio. You stared.
I stared. I didn't see you at all.

We ran up the stairs,
Almost kissing,
Not quite. You turned
And smiled.

Your house was large,
Almost baroque in style,
Old, neat, precise.
Artificial beauty.

We got out of the car,
We felt a giddy excitement,
Lovers. Eager to
Share a thousand moments.

The journey was almost unbearable,
Longing looks into each others eyes.
Is this love? You said. And I kissed you.
Whispered confirmation. Smiled.

You walked out of the bar
Holding my hand, you called a taxi,
We'd drank too much. You wobbled.
Are you ok? I said. You nodded.

I saw you sitting alone.
I sat next to you. Asked to buy
You a drink. You agreed. You were beautiful.
We talked for a long while afterwards

I was lost in a crowd of people.
Almost suffocating in the reality
Of others. I looked around the room,
Searching for a similar reality.
A one night stand is told in reverse, which emphasises the futility of it.
Blackenedfigs Dec 2020
Take me back to a different hotel every night and living out of a suitcase. Getting comfortable in our naked bodies around each other; comparing breast size and stretch marks—examining ourselves like the men who’ve carelessly fondled us before for our likes and dislikes. Sharing a bottle of lukewarm tequila in the world’s smallest bathtub and then I sing you to sleep. Highway cars buzzing past and there’s only one road to get lost on, but we manage it every single time. Your car becomes a dressing room at gas stations where people stare with disapproving glares and worry for the safety of their wallets; because we don’t belong here but we laugh—still drunk from the early morning hours and just trying to find the next check-in spot for the night. There never is a real destination but home always seems too close and we both hate that part. It doesn’t feel right when it ends or when I have to crawl back into my own bed without a time frame to be out by in the morning—before the housekeeping maid comes banging on our door,
yet again.
Dream May 2020
Strip me to my core. Without laying your hands on me. And watch me be your, devotee.
Carlo C Gomez Nov 2019
Dads buy them
Boys hide them
Fascinated by what they see
It's a passed down ideology
A coming of age curiosity?
Or the beginnings
Of misogyny?
Alek Mielnikow Aug 2019
Seagulls peck away at forgotten remnants.

A knot of women gossip and giggle
as they admire the young man up the shore
performing pullups, sweat rolling down
the lines of his back. Two men walk by
holding hands, sharing a kiss
before the sunset. A woman relaxes with
an ******-mystery-thriller and a
Jennie of Morris Muscat all for herself.

And an old man lies on the sand, ****
and propped on his elbows, his toes tickling
the rising tide as he stares out into the sea.
He always hated his body. Hated being
underneath his skin, his fat, the hair
on his back, his inadequacies. This old man
plans to die here, in this new land, his senior
getaway. But at least he will spend his
final days at this beach, wetting his feet,
taking in the rising moon’s cool breath.
And he’s around people who understand
his need for freedom, who wouldn’t
make him feel ashamed for being him,
for just being born human.

A young man arrives, staying in the backshore.
He strips to his boxers and hesitates,
looking towards the waves for strength.
He then throws them off and plops down,
holding his knees to his chest, a smirk on his face.


-
by Aleksander Mielnikow
(Alek the Poet)
Though the content of this poem was developed within the dark confines of my mind, it was in part inspired by, i_weigh, Sam Smith, and Marie Southard Ospina. As someone with rather extreme, played-a-small-part-in-my-four-suicide-attempts level of body image issues, I'm hoping I can go from the shameful young man to the validated old man by the time I'm dead… I mean, not the young stud doing pullups, I can't do those. I've done an 1000lb leg press, but pullups? You crazy?! But enjoying that dessert wine and a book? That I can dig.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
A few of you
have seen my face

One of you
has kissed my cheek

so ***
you can now see me
in full frontal ******

I am the ruggedly handsome
man,
who as usual
is on the floor looking for
something to hug
beside the *****
the new banner photo up with a real recent pic
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
The innocence of ****** has
been tainted by sheer
obscenity.
Such is society.
I'm a lover of sculpture, especially the Greek ones.
It annoys the hell outta me when people are being so **** IMMATURE about them.
Lyn ***
CeilingStar Jul 2018
You are the only one who has ever seen me naked

Being naked in this sense is less of a physical state than it is an emotional one
Seeing me naked is seeing me as I am

Raw raging firey desires,
Illustrious passions,
My wildest, deepest dreams

True ****** requires showing you the insignificant sprouts of cruelty and knee buckling pearls of weakness that live in my heart

I chose to tell only you

What breaks my heart?
What do I see when I look in your eyes?
What mundane things do you do that I can't stop daydreaming about all day?

Things absolutely anyone else but you could not know

So I can't promise that nobody will ever see me with my clothes off
But I can promise that you will be the only one to ever see me for me

Completely naked

k.g.
You know what I look like naked ;)
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