She Was.

Triangles are the ugliest of shapes, all sharp corners stick your fingers bleed. I much prefer circles, igloos, the blue-white heat repetitiveness, safety. Cocoons. I’m too much like an ostrich and by the time I spat the sand out I was impaled on your angles.

More than anything I want to be fucked. Hard. Degraded. Demeaned. I don’t want this new vocabulary. I don’t know if I want to be you, stretched out, exposed on that table or if I want to be her, paid for and bought. I want to feel what you felt, and I want to see what she saw. I want to be privy to that conversation, I want you on my useless hands. I want to slip into the warmth of her body, feel her mouth tight around my cock. I want to look into your face when I touch you. I want to repeat her store bought lies. I want to feel the mattress hug my body as it sags beneath my weight. I want to be inside your head. I want to think your thoughts. I want to know if I was there. Did the thought of me make you cum harder? I want to be held down, bound, violated again and again. I want to hurt. I want to beg. I want to silently cry. I want to see me through your eyes.