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Image for the poem Strings


His magnificence reaches for the stars as I navigate the jet lag whilst pondering his wilderness in a book he gifted to me, that was actually meant for someone else and his loveliness is oft mistaken for mischievousness.

A bit like the nerdy girl next door but the guy next door knows nothing more than what he sees on the surface, and on the surface, weíre both unassuming yet curious to penetrate the surface & unravel things that we rarely speak blatantly honest about.

You know, like all those things taboo that remain unspoken pertaining to how many times he jerked off today thinking about the girl next door whilst fist pumping his majestic & stunning rocket, and Iím pondering how to grip him as he tells me Iím the girl next door that he watches.

Intently, yet playfully until weíre both raw & bare naked, heart to heart & soul to soul.

With one hand at the base and the other gripping his shaft midway, or by wrapping my velvet cherry hued lips around his little monster and deep throating him intently, either way heís not going to fit and heíll make me work to swallow his fireworks.

He likes that but will never admit it until it happens.

And he wants me to read the text of the book that leaves me jolted and perplexed as he launches me back to those high school days where I was swiftly exited from truly appreciating my catholicity, gifted from those who raised me as those who birthed me, birthed me into sin.

Kneeling before him whilst embodying the revelry that he finds upon my lips, and he canít contain his desires, like embers that kindle as wasted space resurfaces noting you canít undo whatís done, like the time he wasted whilst entertaining whores on the sidewalk.

He slips his fingers between my hardened nipples before lassoing one of them strategically with a piece of string, and Iím reminded that my freedom is as long as the piece of string he uses to catapult me into the vortex of his world, where pleasure & pain is akin to heaven on earth.

Not much has changed, I struggle with my demons as Iím only human but Iíve learnt to fuck them just as good as they fuck me, rigorously minus the labor of love, and he waits patiently as I whisper filth to him to elicit his true feelings.

Deep down, he loves it, and I love the way he lies. It took me a decade to learn his love language and he speaks mine like it was a dialect heíd always known, from a past life.

He likes to pretend heís better than that but his cock always stands to attention, and he comes back for more, even though he thinks Iím a whore as I drain him daily, sometimes, morning, noon & night when we both take a sick day to replenish one another.

He told me that itís good for his mental health as I drive him crazy, up the wall & round the twist, until weíre both pining the loss before we even measure the distance from there to here as we whisper affirmations to one another.

And life is too short to wander whilst wondering.
Written by shadow_starzzz
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 5 reading list entries 3
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DevilsChild FeNyX moroccanpoet
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