All the black leather she needs is the E-Z boy recliner where her love is parked with one of his hands wrapped around a remote, the other, a bottle of beer. She's right. It's kinky. The way he doesn't look away from the TV, as her head bobs in his lap like a fisherman's float on a nature program, hectic with the pace his breath sets. His crotch swells under her mouth's prowess. He's such a sweetheart he waits until the commercials to come.

I write to make sense of things that dont make sense to me.

I think that hope is the act of continuing in the face of the truth.

Someone Should Write Me a Love Poem but I'm Stuck Doing It Myself

I was 14 and madly in love for the first time. He was 21. He made me suddenly, unaccustomedly beautiful with his kisses and mix tapes. During the year of elation and longing, he never mentioned that he had a girlfriend who lived across the street.

Love - at least the pair-bonded, prescribed love - does not conquer all.

come back so i can say yes this time do it again now that i know what to call what you did this time i'll be ready i like it rough now and i'm done with romance i never met another man who loved me so much at first sight he had to hurt me to do it