The Sad Part Is... (a poem)

You hate that sex makes you happy. You could never accept that anything could ever be so simple. You could never accept that you could ever be so simple. Your life has revolved around a deeper meaning, when all you really want is a cigarette after climaxing, and someone to argue with when you’re seeking a different sort of stimulation.

You think about maybe being happy one day; that being happy means settling down with a family, a career in a box, and some friends to invite over to your nice home filled with shit you secretly hate. But when you imagine what happiness truly means, you can only imagine your legs wrapped around my head, my lips and tongue pressed against you.

I’ll be the only one to tell you that it’s okay to have such simplistic longings, and that the birds and bees don’t worry about credit card debt. But, I’ll also be the only one to tell you, with sincerity, that I miss the way you taste after you’ve berated me for not sharing your exact view on an issue. 

You may think I’m a fool for looking to you with puppy eyes, and glazed lips, after I’ve fulfilled my usefulness. I’d think myself a fool for not being used by you. Hate yourself all you want. Shit, hate me all you want. But don’t approach me for casual conversation, attempt to make yourself feel anything other than contempt for all humanity, tell me you miss me, and that we don’t hang out enough…

knowing that all you want is hard dick, and your pussy licked.

You’re not using anyone. I cum too.

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