Unpretty Thing

I need to be ravished. Heart, mind, body and soul. To be the instrument of passion and elation for that man, starved by my absence, unsated by my presence.

My body brail for a blind man. A feast for his hands, lips and tongue. Writhing, joining, melding together in all senses.

The taste of me the drug of his addiction. A frantic longing to consume my body, my soul, my essence.

To be his longing, his sadness and his joy. To be felt...

Oh, to be the feeling he has searched for in the darkness of his loney nights. To be wanted completely for all that I am.

Every breath a silent scream of ecstasy. A fulfilment of forbidden desires.

To be the object of unspeakable acts of the flesh. Lovingly debased in the full light of day. What a wonderful dream... *Sigh

This unrelenting need that scratches at the walls of my soul, bleeding my being dry. Killing me softly with withering hope and fading promise. Like mist destroyed by the burning sun. The fire burning low.

Where is this soul linked by fate with delicate strings to every fibre of my wanton existence? These strings twist and fray, nurturing a dreadful fear of things that may never be. Blooming in the corners of my darkest thoughts, this toxic bleeding vine that curls around my pathetic hopeless heart.

A deafening silence my only answer as I scream beseechingly into the void. My worst fears curling their cold, unforgiving fingers around my shoulders.

No matter the intensity of my flame. It seems forever strangled by loneliness. Being unwanted, unneeded, unyerned for, undesired, rejected.

To be in the eye of the beholder. Beautiful... But no. Not this hard edged fragile soul.

Sadness my constant companion. No flames lit to match my fire. Nymphetamine of none but my own desires. Not broken and more precious for it. No. Broken and discarded, always.
 
No want for this imperfect waif. No desire for this misshapen shell. No longing for this bleeding heart, filled to butsting. No lust, no yearning, no joy. Just hollow words and platitudes. Never good enough. Not even satisfactory. Barely existing. Forever searching, seeking, wanting.

Every step, like walking on shattered glass, mile after mile. My bleeding feet take no notice, but my waning heart never forgets.

Wandering in eternity to seek this unobtainable thing. Only unobtainable for me. Others seem to find it effortlessly without struggle. While the darkness settles in my ugly bones with the echoes of veiled snide remarks sticking like knives from my burdened back.

No soft caress, seering my flesh with manic, unbridled wanting. No lips to curb this burning in my soul. No eyes to see the core of me. No skin covered in gooseflesh by the mention of my name. No whisper in the night for a lovelorn heart. No tender, rough seeking hands. No tongue to douse the need of quivering lust. No heart that beats in rhythm with every thrust. No feeling. Just a gaping dark emptiness. No  love.

No.

Not for an unpretty thing like me.