Bullshit times

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     In a sordid embrace they join, it is them against the world. Lovers not yet proclaimed, they cannot say what they have. They only know what they need; they only care for what they feel. Their hand s long to be part of a fantasy, yet reality is much harsher than what they will ever be.

     One is strong, yet covets from her and others. The other is lost and proud; she does not covet from others. The strong one imposes herself on the lost one, for she knows how to control her. The lost one says many times over NO, for no means no to her but not to her oppressor. The moment when she least expects it, she is there waiting for her like a predator, she is her prey. Oh and how she loves that sweet embrace, for she has nothing, not one soul she can turn to for comfort. “Is this love, is this lust, is this another one just using my soul?” she ponders in desperation.

     Only once her oppressor agreed to stop her machinations for a man that once was alive, he truly cared for the lost and proud one. And for awhile the lost was found in bliss, and for awhile she had her peace. Until death took over her beloved, until darkness clouded her judgment, until her oppressor came for her. It did not matter how many times she said no to her, her oppressor knew that she needed her, for the first time, she truly needed to feel real. Pressed against the cold bathroom wall, her voice was silenced, reduced to tears of lament. Knowingly, she was used to satisfy her oppressor’s desires; her body was a reaped canvas, manipulated by the invisible hand that made her cum regretfully. Knowingly, she did nothing, she was an embarrassment to herself; she was to be kept hidden from the oppressor’s suitor, family and friends, like a shameful secret, in disdain.

   Knowingly she needed to reach the end. Willfully she agreed to let her oppressor take her last breath. It was to be the last time for them; their secret encounters were to end at that moment. After trying to be something she was not, she knew her oppressor would not let her go. Leverage she had, and she used it in her advantage. Free at last, yet she missed the touch of the invisible hand.  She longed to be oppressed, to be dominated, she longed to be the prey, for she needed to feel pain, in order to feel pleasure. 

  Once the spell was broken she was herself again, she could pursue her own interests, yet she could not stop thinking about her. A woman who came to her “aide”, who made her feel “important” and oppressed, a woman with such beauty that perplexed her and made her feel weak in her knees, a woman so evil she would play her like an instrument, use her soul and steal her words under her breath, make promises she would break, use her mind and bring her pain, and shamefully hide her in disdain.

Free from her spell, yet wanting to be felt by her again. Loneliness is comfortable now that she can see herself for what she is, a woman who has come undone.