Keep Quiet Before it Quits on Me
Slut.
That’s what you are.
Don’t even bother denying it.
I know everything. I know how you think and what you think about.
Sex.
Admit it. You love playing dirty. The mere thought of being pushed onto your hands and knees then ripped open, sends blood rushing through you, leaving your head empty, slightly dizzy.
It’s your drug.
Drops of liquid, packets of powder, shots of poison, drags of smoke; it’s all a game.
You live for the rush. It keeps you going. But nothing could compare to how elated you feel when there’s a hand wrapped around your dick; no drug, no bottle, no fume.
Your hands shake as you fumble for a cigarette, placing the stick between your pale lips and lighting the end. You burn your finger lightly on the small flame, muttering a curse before taking a long drag. The smoke flutters into the sky, leaving gray clouds in the damp air. It’s dark outside, and you stand in nothing but a pair of boxers in the near freezing cold.
But you could care less. The self-destruction isn’t just a habit anymore, it’s a lifestyle.
I watch you, your gold hair losing its bright color. You’ll be re-dyeing it soon. For somebody who acts like they don’t give a shit about themselves, you sure care a lot about the way you look.
You call it normal.
I call it narcissism.
But we disagree on a lot of things don’t we darling?
Whore.
When I first called you that you cried and I slapped you.
We both knew I was telling the truth.
Eventually you stopped reacting, but you never agreed. Oh, but I know you know it.
You were made for sex. Your long neck, perfect shoulders, toned chest, fucking hipbones, all leading down to your girl hips and long legs. There’s nothing I love more than digging my nails into your hips and watching your back arch as I bite your neck.
You cough loudly, the cigarette threatening to fall from your fingers as your body convulses for mere seconds. I stop my wandering for a moment to assess the situation.
“Maybe you should get dressed.”
You glare at me, eyes turning into thin slits. You look like a cobra waiting to strike.
“Piss off.”
I shrug, watching you intently. Your cig runs out as you throw it off the balcony and onto the ground. It hits the grass, sparking for moments before dying out. It could’ve caught fire. Not that you would notice.
You move closer to me, kissing my neck lightly. I fucking hate it when you smell like smoke, but I let you.
It feels good, the way your tongue massages my skin, biting every so often.
Dirty. Used. That’s what you are.
That’s all you’ll ever be.
I chuckle, placing a hand on your lower back and pinching the skin. You whine, low and needy. You like pain, you thrive off it.
I pull back, staring into your eyes, the pupils already dilated, brown irises almost completely consumed.
“You fucking horny bitch.”
You nod, grabbing my arm and pulling me inside the apartment, shutting the glass doors behind us. You should’ve closed the curtains, but you could care less about who sees us. You just want your dick wet.
I don’t remember how you turned into this self-destructive animal, with the sex drive of a porn-star.
Maybe you got sick of being a good little boy and living up to your parents expectations.
Maybe the life of a rock star finally got to you.
All I know is that the minute you got onto that tour bus with our band, you changed.
Like a coin flipped to another side, we all noticed your differences.
Everything looks different in the light than in the dark. Even you, pretty boy.
When was the last time somebody cared about you, including yourself?
I don’t care. You might think I do, but I just pity you. You’re like a player gambling all of his money on a poker game, and you have nothing in the bank but you keep gambling, keep digging a deeper hole for yourself. You play until there are tears in your pockets from where you dig around for spare change. And you love it.
I know about the countless guys you fuck in bars. Don’t think I haven’t heard your moans coming from shit covered stalls. I know it all.
I’ve tried leaving you. But every single time, you beg for me to stay. You promise you’ll change, you’ll act better, you’ll stop the drugs, the cheating, the whoring yourself out.
You never stop.
I'm dead, tell them all we're dead.
I used to love you, I think, as you push me onto the bed, your skin warming up rapidly in the hot room. Your boxers are gone in seconds; you’re just skilled like that. Practice makes perfect after all.
We can hold the wake right here in this bed.
You hand grips my cock as you slide down the bed, kissing my chest as you descend. Your cold breath hits my erection soon after, as your lips engulf the head. And you go down, down, down. No gag reflex. Just like most whores.
Sunk into you, tangled in sheets, buried in blankets six foot deep.
Not long after, you’re riding me, your memories and worries fading away as you moan loudly, grinding down. The bed is shaking from our combined force as I thrust up and you push down. We’ve always been good together, just like this.
I'm dead.
When we’re finished you pull off and collapse onto the bed, leaving me to clean the cum off the cheap sheets. My nose wrinkles in distaste as you watch me. Your hands reach out to me, pulling me down next to you.
A night to remember.
A day to forget.
When I wake up, you’re already dressed, ready to go about your day. I don’t miss the bruises on your inner elbow; I do notice the scratches on your wrists. And I see your bloodshot eyes, the pink color under your nose. I see you wiping hastily, sniffing the air. And I note how wild your hair is, despite the shower I know you took in the middle of the night.
And the only thing I don’t know is who gave you the sex hair.
And I don’t know what you did with that person.
But I can guess that it was fit for a slut like you.
You smile, trying to cover the evidence, but I’m not stupid. You know I know.
The cycle is never ending.
You’ll be apologizing once your latest hit wears off.
That’s what you are.
Don’t even bother denying it.
I know everything. I know how you think and what you think about.
Sex.
Admit it. You love playing dirty. The mere thought of being pushed onto your hands and knees then ripped open, sends blood rushing through you, leaving your head empty, slightly dizzy.
It’s your drug.
Drops of liquid, packets of powder, shots of poison, drags of smoke; it’s all a game.
You live for the rush. It keeps you going. But nothing could compare to how elated you feel when there’s a hand wrapped around your dick; no drug, no bottle, no fume.
Your hands shake as you fumble for a cigarette, placing the stick between your pale lips and lighting the end. You burn your finger lightly on the small flame, muttering a curse before taking a long drag. The smoke flutters into the sky, leaving gray clouds in the damp air. It’s dark outside, and you stand in nothing but a pair of boxers in the near freezing cold.
But you could care less. The self-destruction isn’t just a habit anymore, it’s a lifestyle.
I watch you, your gold hair losing its bright color. You’ll be re-dyeing it soon. For somebody who acts like they don’t give a shit about themselves, you sure care a lot about the way you look.
You call it normal.
I call it narcissism.
But we disagree on a lot of things don’t we darling?
Whore.
When I first called you that you cried and I slapped you.
We both knew I was telling the truth.
Eventually you stopped reacting, but you never agreed. Oh, but I know you know it.
You were made for sex. Your long neck, perfect shoulders, toned chest, fucking hipbones, all leading down to your girl hips and long legs. There’s nothing I love more than digging my nails into your hips and watching your back arch as I bite your neck.
You cough loudly, the cigarette threatening to fall from your fingers as your body convulses for mere seconds. I stop my wandering for a moment to assess the situation.
“Maybe you should get dressed.”
You glare at me, eyes turning into thin slits. You look like a cobra waiting to strike.
“Piss off.”
I shrug, watching you intently. Your cig runs out as you throw it off the balcony and onto the ground. It hits the grass, sparking for moments before dying out. It could’ve caught fire. Not that you would notice.
You move closer to me, kissing my neck lightly. I fucking hate it when you smell like smoke, but I let you.
It feels good, the way your tongue massages my skin, biting every so often.
Dirty. Used. That’s what you are.
That’s all you’ll ever be.
I chuckle, placing a hand on your lower back and pinching the skin. You whine, low and needy. You like pain, you thrive off it.
I pull back, staring into your eyes, the pupils already dilated, brown irises almost completely consumed.
“You fucking horny bitch.”
You nod, grabbing my arm and pulling me inside the apartment, shutting the glass doors behind us. You should’ve closed the curtains, but you could care less about who sees us. You just want your dick wet.
I don’t remember how you turned into this self-destructive animal, with the sex drive of a porn-star.
Maybe you got sick of being a good little boy and living up to your parents expectations.
Maybe the life of a rock star finally got to you.
All I know is that the minute you got onto that tour bus with our band, you changed.
Like a coin flipped to another side, we all noticed your differences.
Everything looks different in the light than in the dark. Even you, pretty boy.
When was the last time somebody cared about you, including yourself?
I don’t care. You might think I do, but I just pity you. You’re like a player gambling all of his money on a poker game, and you have nothing in the bank but you keep gambling, keep digging a deeper hole for yourself. You play until there are tears in your pockets from where you dig around for spare change. And you love it.
I know about the countless guys you fuck in bars. Don’t think I haven’t heard your moans coming from shit covered stalls. I know it all.
I’ve tried leaving you. But every single time, you beg for me to stay. You promise you’ll change, you’ll act better, you’ll stop the drugs, the cheating, the whoring yourself out.
You never stop.
I'm dead, tell them all we're dead.
I used to love you, I think, as you push me onto the bed, your skin warming up rapidly in the hot room. Your boxers are gone in seconds; you’re just skilled like that. Practice makes perfect after all.
We can hold the wake right here in this bed.
You hand grips my cock as you slide down the bed, kissing my chest as you descend. Your cold breath hits my erection soon after, as your lips engulf the head. And you go down, down, down. No gag reflex. Just like most whores.
Sunk into you, tangled in sheets, buried in blankets six foot deep.
Not long after, you’re riding me, your memories and worries fading away as you moan loudly, grinding down. The bed is shaking from our combined force as I thrust up and you push down. We’ve always been good together, just like this.
I'm dead.
When we’re finished you pull off and collapse onto the bed, leaving me to clean the cum off the cheap sheets. My nose wrinkles in distaste as you watch me. Your hands reach out to me, pulling me down next to you.
A night to remember.
A day to forget.
When I wake up, you’re already dressed, ready to go about your day. I don’t miss the bruises on your inner elbow; I do notice the scratches on your wrists. And I see your bloodshot eyes, the pink color under your nose. I see you wiping hastily, sniffing the air. And I note how wild your hair is, despite the shower I know you took in the middle of the night.
And the only thing I don’t know is who gave you the sex hair.
And I don’t know what you did with that person.
But I can guess that it was fit for a slut like you.
You smile, trying to cover the evidence, but I’m not stupid. You know I know.
The cycle is never ending.
You’ll be apologizing once your latest hit wears off.