Curled on the hotel bed together, drinking wine in a slow conversation. It turns out 'you're in love now, but it's not with me, so I'm not interested.
I curl into you and smell the cologne on your neck, touch your thigh through your jeans. There's a stammer in my voice and I'm making realistic statements, but I don't think you'll see me again now.
Sex with you is so cleansing. You make me feel so fragile and emotional. You choke me into a blind and spluttering panic. You fuck my throat until I gag back vomit. Take me, screw me, touch me up. I wish I could cry. I'd like to. You smack me repeatedly across my face, tip me upside down, rag me around. Violence, desire and confusion.
I apply my lipstick and we go for dinner, and you tell me I look chic and beautiful. I find it hard to keep it together in front of you, sometimes. I cant lie down with you at night.
I barely sleep.
You wake me up and give me coffee and you lick me and fuck me and drag me to the shower and piss all over my face, as I cower and scrunch up my eyes. You wash my hair like I'm your little girl. You touch my body. You rub your cock against me.
I walk you to the station. We smoke a cigarette and say goodbye.
You kiss me softly on the lips.
You tell me you'll talk to me soon, but I don't believe you. You tell me you're still the same person, but you're not.
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