And, I smiled at my own nakedness.
Pouring down my thighs,
With the *****,
I stood stark ****.
Unbounded of the brassieres
And support of the *******,
It was a plain freedom.
But, I.
I felt the air quench horror down.
The tingling of the copulation
And, its sweaty remnants glued the ***** soil,
Onto my tender body,
While crouched further into the ground.
It was very dark.
And, two limelight.
I could see me in one.
Bare.
Shaved
And dripping.
And, in the other,
A he,
Was not there.
Two dozen men stood
In front of me.
All those acquaintances it seemed like
The new age resultant of a dozen
Photoshop-ed faces reflecting the crimson of
Familiar intimacies of all the swallowed *****,
It seemed as if.
Well, I could recognise all of them.
I had slept with each, once upon.
The beautiful ***, the sneering *******,
The-neourotic-awesome one, the pro-marriage one,
The sweet one, the afraid one, the older one,
The browny,
The passionately wild and genuine one,
The drugged one,
The fat ****
And the **** guy.
All in front of me.
While I was nubile,
Begging in clasped hands,
A tear of joy.
Of thankfulness.
Of a heavy thankfulness.
For having worshipped my innards
My ejaculations, perpetually wet vaginal facades
And escapades.
For the li'lest that time they did.
But, then.
Yes.
Ya, I was grateful,
I was simply grateful
For having been objectified.
For having been indebted to those zillion
Dissolved and
Disposed tissues in their garbage bins
That was blotched with my vaginal smear, ***** and mucous.
Time never felt necessary
A romantic forgetfulness!
For love had,
Taught me co-existence.
And only,
Co-existence.
Which, would come to use only if I'm shipwrecked, alone.
I stood up.
Yes, I stood UP ON MY LEGS.
My ******* panted off
the last bit of sweat,
The wind was pleasant,
But strong.
I couldn't feel the cold.
My fingers Icy cold I wrapped against the warm elbows,
And nails,
Gushing with an ablaze of bloodiest red of
A life so dead white.
And, the sweat had disappeared.
The ***** too.
I was drought, clean.
I was done.
A heavy tornado of misandry
Came buy,
And I jumped in.
And howled with the wind.
Loud, clear.
And, red.
And, howled the world to howl with me.
For the celestial lesions up above,
to buy my rage.
Because the effervescent stake was
Too holy a scent
For my scanty dermis.
I Howled,
Through my rusted lance
And swamped hips,
Too dry.
To Spike my cramps
And howl into my knee-caps a full blow of pure kush for the empty cavities.
Ha ha.
Entrap the last ounce of warmth
Of a paranoid agony.
And howl the misandry.
Around. And around.
And around.
Around.
Till it comes back,
Around n round n round.
N round.
Misandry, my toska.
My final Toska.
Toska is a Russian Word that is inexplicable to translate to English.
