The Truth

Ah, my love, you act so well. Use whatever you can to let the world know you don’t want me anymore. And you strut and preen like someone who doesn’t need or want anyone for anything. You are independent, self-assured, and don’t give a fuck. And you’ll stop at nothing to prove that to me and everyone else. Even parade through here with countless others. Others….yes.

Others can touch your body and yeah…it feels good. And you sigh, and moan, and press, and pull, but they ain’t me. They don’t taste like me, look like me, make you tingle like me, make you sigh like me, or make you want like me. Oh sure, they can make you sweat, and pant, and groan. They can make you arch and tremble. They can even get you to return kisses, hugs, touches, and orgasms. But I’m the one who wets you with written words, makes you squirm with a glance, causes a jaw clench with a single phrase.

Don’t try to act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Laugh, shake your head, and do what you need to do to pretend you don’t give a flying fuck if you want to. And if you need to, you can even say the words out loud. But truth is, if I showed up, you’d bust hell wide open to get a least a glimpse, even if you have to act like it was a coincidence. And if I pressed myself against a wall, pulling you against me, you know damn well you’d stay, if nothing else, you’d kiss me to make me want you and walk away….just to stick a knife in me and twist it with a sadistic satisfaction. But even then, you’d get more than that evil pleasure from it and you know it.

But it’s all good…I know the truth. And so do you.

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