dissatisfaction

I used to be so sexually liberated
and not give a fuck about anything

... these days it’s just me
and a lot of solo hand jobs


I don’t know when I stopped
feeling your fervour upon my skin
and decided nude expressionism
was the only way I could feel loved

It could have been around the time
you let some else slip their body
inside your underwear
while professing to love me
with the shackles of obligation
that seem to come
with down and out relationships
you can’t walk away from
though you’ve yet to figure out
a reason why

I was too young to realise your whoring
wasn’t a phase I could kiss away

And I let your bruise me in sexual frustration
when my body wouldn’t respond
to the way you fucked me
so I stopped sliding into bed after you
the night half over by the time I succumbed
to exhaustion  
your sleeping body beside me a respite
for my fractured ego
to find pleasure in bitten off screams
at the fervent touch of my own hands
as I fucked myself to sleep
yet again

And perhaps someone should have warned me
you’d be the prelude to a host of
selfish lovers that left me
with the need to fuck myself
just to feel anything at all
after they’d left my bed with nothing but
their own spent desires lingering on my bedsheets

© Indie Adams 2016