Dear You

you got that dirty look and i know what you want. you want me to do you.

i know because it's that time, and this is always when you want me the most.

and as always, i'll toss you around, get you wet, and get you hot.

i'm a fool, but i'm aware.

i know what we are.

i'll spend more money than i want, convincing myself you're worth the extra time. and as soon as it's over, you'll just go back to your side of the bedroom and ignore me for the rest of the evening.

or you'll want me to pamper you, and caress you, and convince you i still love you as much as the first day we met.

you're a high maintenance slut.

but how can i complain? people notice you more than me when we go out. i get it. i'm naked without you. and you're there for me no matter what even though i'm sure that can wear you down.

you're right when you tell me i need you.

but i just wish we were more than what we are.

we're just abusive fuck-buddies pretending and i keep telling myself to stop giving in every time you're feeling dirty-- it only makes us worse. but i can't help it. i wanna tangle myself in your arms and legs and i wanna be inside you.

you just feel so damn good. it's like you were made for my body.

so here i am again, looking at you and imagining what it would be like to take you to the basement and get down to business, i've even thought about doing it in the kitchen-- quick n' rough.

i tried avoiding you and i know you could tell. but this is why. i knew if i got drunk and saw you looking like you look, i'd lose it and spend the whole night with you.

so fine: i'll do you. but you're a dirty fucking slut, laundry. and we both know it.

yours,
president wishnack

p.s. you're also kind of a racist and that makes it a lot harder to have fun with you.