A crimson river over the pale, white skin.
It's wet. And warm. Feels fulfilling.
Longing for it to keep going,
to dip into the sweet silence.
The darkness coddling me like
it's own new born.
Inviting me to feel it's comfort,
to be held again.
By the mix of warmth and chill.
I'm just so sick of the lies,
Fed to me by others and myself,
they tell me they love me!
Smart, handsome, witty, perfect they say.
Stupid, grotesque and worthless.
To those three I concur.
To those three I belong!
They are me, i'm them.
Far from perfect