Pump & puncture

Don't plan your life around me


Your teeth are falling out and I am like a clinging baby to your breast, I need constant attention. I need all of you inside of me – I am starved of your affection, I can feel the tickle of its ebb and flow as you give me crumbs of words, then withdraw again. Your words are so shallow it frustrates me. I feel tiny and hollow as I am pumped up by someone else’s adoration, their lips inflate what yours had seemingly let shrivel. But then you do something that makes you human and lovely, and I am punctured all over again. Confused. And irritated, irritated at myself as I watch his succulent ass move in his well-fitting sweatpants. My pussy tingles and I smile at myself. I feel alive and horny, but terrified. Terrified of what all this might mean. I asked to hear your voice, because you no longer felt human. I feel guilty as I hear you in my ear, and I remember who I wanked over this morning, it wasn’t you. I miss you with a cold detachment, as I begin to wonder about what will happen if/when I fuck someone who isn’t you, will I continue to pretend that everything is ok, and lie when I say I miss you, or will I mean it? Will I think I am in love and lose you forever, only to regret it later? I don’t think we have anything in common, you know, with this other. But I can’t stop flirting with the sickly terror of what might happen if I edged a little bit closer. Sometimes I feel an urgent need to adore you to prove that this isn’t happening, and then I wonder if this is what accounts for your tidal affection, because you too are caught in another’s arms, whilst trying to continue to water a ‘daydream future’.

Image credit: Found images, unknown source