Jars of hearts align the shelves of your mind, tokens and charms from your past loves-- From the darkness you said you wanted to escape, but you seemed to never want to face. I didn't want to be another experiment left to rot away inside a jar, pickled and perserved-- Just like the rest of your lovers. I gave you everything you wanted, I let you in deep inside, I wanted to be deep inside of you. . .
Your mind. . .
Your heart. . .
Your soul. . .
Your body. . .
But whenever I wanted to show you how to be loved, you push me away laughing and smiling because phsyical love to you, emotional love to you, sentimental love to you-- It is nothing but a mere joke.
I feel sick when I think of you, the tenderness that I showed you now rotting away, like dead skin cells after an atomic bomb-- I wanted to give you something you never had, but I was not love to you-- I was not something special to you-- I was a cheap fuck, something to pass the time just like all the others were to you.
Nothing has meaning to you.
Everything is meant for you to rip open, slice with a delicate motion and then finger deep into their wound, so deep to make them do whatever you want just to stop the pain-- the pain and the tears of embarressment running down their face.
Is that what you wanted me to feel?
Because that's all you felt when you were intimate? You were raped and molested and so that was what I had to feel too. I had to feel lonely after we made love, I had to feel sick with myself because for the longest time you didn't touch me.
Spread out before me, I gaze upon your body like the lovely sculpture that it was crafted into, I made you feel beautfil because to me, at the time, you were beautiful. You were what I wanted, but you never made me feel that way. You mentioned how good I was with my mouth, but what about my body-- What about my kisses-- What about me in general? Is that all you missed, when I would suck your clitoris and when I would drink up your juices, and taste your sweet nectar? Is that all I was to you, your special pet? Your whore that would go down for you and please you until you burst out laughing, maybe not because you orgasmed but because you were laughing at how willing I was to please you. And then you would pretend to please me just the same, to humor me-- To make me feel better about myself.
An oral fucking for two?
The horror of our love-- ". . .I wrote about something that we never did in there. . ."
So I was good with my mouth, but nothing else about me makes you want to think of me again. How about the way I cried when you pushed your fingers inside me, how I thought that I was suppose to tear up but then when I had something else injected between my body and resting his weight on top of me, I felt safer-- I didn't feel pain, maybe a little but just like I described it in my stories-- that's how it was suppose to feel. It was going to hurt at first and then it was going to feel amazing and it did. . .
But you, all I felt with you when we were done.
When it was over.
Just like the whore at the corner that gets paid for getting on her knees feels.
Just like the housewife whose husband won't touch her anymore, because she's getting old feels.
Just like the little girl whose babysitter rapes her and she is not meant to ever tell a soul feels.
Just like the girl left bleeding in a alley after being raped by three men she didn't know and then left there to bleed feels.
Nothing borrowed, nothing gained.
All that is left is the emptiness that filled my soul for so long. You wrote about sex, fucking and banging-- Disgusting, grostesque detail about what you wanted us to do, or what you thought that we could do but never allowed us to actually do. You didn't let us go crazy, you barely ever let me break you in a little-- Sex?
You're afraid of sex, aren't you?
Or are you afraid of love?
You have been given love time and time again, by different people and you have crushed it and walked away from it calling it something that it probably wasn't. You are exactly what once hurt you, monsters that feed on the innocence of young girls, of young hearts, of young flesh.
You are obsessed with rape and molestation. That's all any of your stories are about.
I only throw it in every once and a while, and maybe because I feel raped by you-- I feel cheated. I feel sick, sick of what you did to me.
Time and time again.
You used me.
You fucked me.
You touched me.
You broke me.
You left me.
And I was empty.