I would've married that man but I never even knew his name. He was just another John, Bruce or whatever-the-fuck name he donned on the day.


I'll call him Cooper because I wasn't too sure who I was calling, and who was attempting to solicit my deep dark secrets for heavy artillery purposes.


He'd accoutre himself in covet from the bad things that weighed not so heavily upon his conscience.


He didn't sound like a John, but then again he sounded the same, just like betrayal.


I'd send him my condolences and blow him in a heart beat but his past kept fucking with his future.


Whores aren't wifey material anyway, they're just washed up carbon copies that wannabe placed upon his pedestal like a princess.


If you want 24/7 flutterings of the heart, best you find a piece of vanilla slice, and carve her into the epitome of her own stupidity, when she's not looking.


He compels me to whip his arse and bitch slap his face before pulling his hair, and biting upon his bottom lip, right before I fuck his senses from arsehole to breakfast until his nuts are drained, and he doesn't know whether to kill me, or kiss me for the way he silently craves to be liberated from the whores of his past.


If he's lucky, I'll kick him out before the sun rises without a shower, just so he can sit in the stench of the love we once made, in the dirt underneath the stars.


He'll come back again because he likes mean girls, and deep down, I love him the most when he feels the same kind of pain he inspires within me as I paint his mind with bloody shades of red.

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