Mismatched socks

May 24th is right around the corner. My fingertips are itching. My lips are cracked. My insides feel like a desert. I want that connection and my brain being what it is, fills my body with thirst quenching goo. It fills my mind’s eye with memory after memory of love and trust and kink. The goo spills out of my body pooling behind my labia waiting for my fingertips to part my lips. The bed would soak with the memories.

Remember the times I dropped hints like boulders about wax and knives and needles. Remember the hundreds of hints about oral sex. I need to remember the time I wanted to ride the carousel.

He prefers watching a woman touch herself from 1000 miles away. He dislikes being touched. I need touch like I need air. Remember that.

I ate sushi by myself on a date. I walked up my stairs praying he would talk to me. I ate sushi next to him praying he wouldn’t talk to me. Remember that.

Remember how much I need to feel needed and how many times he got his own drink. I like physical punishments. He doesn’t like giving punishments at all.

I will never be the woman standing in the corner waiting contently for his order or instruction. I am the wiggling bratty pay attention to me standing so pretty in the corner for you not content at all person.

He needs grace and intelligence. He loves a good mind fuck. I am never graceful and messing around in my head makes me feel unstable. I’ve had enough people call me crazy and unstable without doing it on purpose.

Remember that I wear mismatched socks and he wears white.

Remember the pain and anger and resentment. Remember the fear. I need to remember how mismatched we are. We are like my socks.

It isn’t working because all I can remember is the goo. And I’m thinking I could mate my socks.

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2 thoughts on “Mismatched socks

  1. I know these feels. I remember how good it feels at the moment, but how shitty it feels later. I remember how the day to day just. doesn’t. WORK. Trust me. It gets better. Truly.

    Like

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