Every day I wake up thinking about it.
I touch myself and become
juiced like a grapefruit,
wanting you between my legs. Be it your
warm mouth that is as soft and juicy
as a watermelon, only the pips
betray your bitterness.
Or your cock, ram rod hard with
ardour and passion. A huge pistol
fuelled with venom, a sack full of
selfishness, sexual greed,
completely ignoring my emotional needs.
Sex with the ex. It rhymes
and sounds more romantic and
together than it really should
and of course, much more than it really is.
It is soul destroying, as pummelled
and as flawed as orange peel.
Punctured and redundant like a
burst tyre and equally as useless.
But sometimes we need a blowout.
Sometimes we need to punish ourselves
to ensure that we can still feel.
That we are still alive or is that just me?
He feels so familiar inside me,
like he has finally come home.
Coming being the operative word.
Yet somehow for me, it feels
like an arduous night shift.
Shifting my emotions around,
as I try and concentrate on the feeling.
His climax, our past and how
we can never go back to that.
Sex with the ex.
A poetic violent rhyme.
Where two once loving people,
want to travel back in time.