Maybe it’s “what you don’t know won’t hurt you.” Maybe it’s something you tell yourself, you convince yourself of. It’s a little white lie. For me, it’s Daisy. Her voice ringing in my ears. No ring on your finger, girl. It’s the backseat of a Dodge, my Ford, the storage room at work, and empty reaching hands. Daisy, I don’t want to be alone tonight. It used to be a razor blade I wanted to spend my night with, now it’s a cowboy, a rough neck, a leather neck, any good ol’ southern boy. I don’t need the foreplay when I have a slow, grinding two-step and a longneck bottle in my hand. He thumbs my belt buckle and tries to remember my name. Call me whatever you like, darlin’, I can’t hear you over the music anyways. Daisy doesn’t want to dance. She doesn’t want to kiss. She’s that girl he has pinned beneath him. She’s the scream against his shoulder. She’s the force behind my thighs and the tickle in my throat. She’s craving every inch of him: his fingers gripping my slender throat, the hot tongue lacerating the tender buds of my nipples, that long, thick shaft rocking inside me. It hurts so bad but Daisy insists. She’s asking for more, begging him with her eyes, but it’s my throat that’s growing sore from screaming. Have I been forgotten? Have I given this little child inside me too much power? It’s her that he wants to fuck. But he doesn’t know.
And when I lay in bed at night she’s thinking of the next man, wether it’s Clint at work, Tom, Ed Hardy, any number of other nameless guys from the gym, the club, the grocery store.
I’m happy as long as she stays satiated? Is that how it’s going to be again? Like it was when I would cut myself. But it has to stop as some point…it has to…
No comments:
Post a Comment