Torture
He is everything, yet nothing at all. His face, his precisely cut face, it is somehow perfect and handsome, yet ugly, almost disgusting. He wants to touch me, I can tell; he wants to touch me, kiss me, and tear me apart. I close my eyes and all I can see his him; all I can feel is him, all that I breathe is him.
I open my eyes, unsure of how I came to be in this dark room with such a cowardly and cordial man. My hands are upon him and though my brain is telling me, “No more,” I only want more. I need more. I have to have more. To know what is best for you, but to feel you will inevitably do otherwise is torture. To be away from him is torture; to be with him is torture.
I open my eyes, unsure of how I came to be in this dark room with such a cowardly and cordial man. My hands are upon him and though my brain is telling me, “No more,” I only want more. I need more. I have to have more. To know what is best for you, but to feel you will inevitably do otherwise is torture. To be away from him is torture; to be with him is torture.