It still hurts

Thinking about the ways in which I have harmed myself. Given in to needs and wants, the temptation of sin and lust. Over and over bust it open for the wrong ones. Again and again let it overflow. Gave my soul to devils and demons hungry for some flesh. Boys talk. Walk in and fuck, walk out. A shouts out to those that at least contributed an orgasm, otherwise I did not cum, but they go mad quickly. Three minutes tops. non-long-lasting. I punish myself through puns and harsh words. innuendos. Suggest that I am terrible and undeserving of love. That is what I was looking for. And safety. Skating thin ice, on shallow ponds. Now cracked and messed, I am cold, not drowning. sex which amounts to nothing at all. Much sorrow. Hollow and emptiness from a bottle. Leaking alcohol and dripping from my thighs down. Amusing, I am the muse. More like a clown, inciting laughter. A joke. Not breakfast in the morning but egg on my face. It takes two to dance. When I am got out of my pants, shoes off, there is no more music. Sound gone. Empty left overs. A box of nothing, smoked out. Lighter lost. It costs a lot, not just money. Power and reputation. Then online people yelling about rapists. Yet, on the other side of the spectrum sex positivity. Consensual deeds, turned into the story of the week. Scandalous. Boys talk. That, however, is not what they whisper. Sweet and complete bullshit in the darkness. Begging for some. Please and thank you, a manner of desperation. Even cash on the table, drinks, cards swiped. To wipe off those false smiles, I could use a gun. I want to run and run and run away. Not from myself, because I enjoy it. I like to fuck. Unlucky in that men like to fuck me over. A trophy to say they won. Me for the night. Standing drunk, ready to love. Grooved and moved to pass the time. Lights flashing and blind. The answer is no until it is yes. And what a blessing to score. Like drugs, a high and then the heavy low. Blow their load. Then, shoulders turned towards the wall. No holding, no touch. Of course. Got what they wanted. Weeks pass and gossip spreads. My legs open and my heart broken. Colossal fucking mistake. Given away, the time of day to some rats. Serpent looking men in hats. Cool clothing. Shoe boxes line the bedroom floor. Doors that don’t close. I could lock myself away for some years, the fear of this cycle repeating. Focus on work and healing. What to do when the feeling returns, primal concerns and pure animalistic thoughts. I have no answers. To be alone, or to be alone with someone, those are the options. Tomorrows news. Evidence on the bed spread. Sheets messed. A dirty occasion, rolling in the mud with a pig. Sticky, sweet, turned bitter and rotting meat. Have a bite- like women are food. Too often I have served the meals, cooked up using the skin on my back. Salty tears for flavour. A favour unreturned. Pots burn my fingers, forming watery little boils. Cute reminders of a hot evening. Boys talk. Chalk it up to being a slut; I like to have my butt out, tits showing, bopping in the breeze. An ease in my body, I like how I look. The way I move, my hips are stunning. waist tiny. This is power, at least, to me, naked is a natural form. Deformed by the boys, who talk. The girls are worse. Jealousy and curses. Eyes rolling like a magic eight ball. shake at the sight of me, frothing at the mouth. A friend is unlikely. When I am lost, or, phone deaded, the last people to offer theirs. No, sorry. Giggles and fake worry. More stories for the next days tea party. Spilling the vomit. Vile and violent bitches, bitch-boys and their toying games. Name calling is a forte. Whore, and someones daughter. I want to throw up. Erupt and flood over everyone like a bulging dick, sucked off. Head split at the neck. Brainless fucking losers. I can’t win. So, in the morning I will cry about it and scroll on. Through the pictures of these people. Homies that won’t take you home. Buddies and their beds. Take their meds. sick fucks. Disease sticks on me. cigarette holes in silk sheets. Now people are shouting about rape, as if not prying on the event. Divine, trauma cake. Forks out, here’s a plate. it’s sick. Make sure the tape is rolling, take 10. The scene. A horrible movie to star in. Lament on haughty topics and authorise respect. grown men and women, too. Life is high school. Cliques and crews, choosing who is important, who is not. You get a shot depending upon who you got in your corner. Connections if you stay plugged. lack of character or talent, swept under the rug. As long it looks good. Cancel this, and cancel that. A woke cancer, sleepy to the real issue. Drool at the sight of boobs. No victim, no crime committed. Just truth omitted and lies flipped for some crumpets. The delicious scoop. a nightmare loop, keeping me from my dreams. I could scream, but I won’t because then she’s crazy. That’s why I write about it, it still hurts.