The hardest part of loving myself is the fact that it reminds me of the forsaken environment I live in. The desire of other hands, of silken lips to caress not only my lips but my body. But I grow impatient...
I scream!
Lechery has been what grew in my solitary demise.
Looking at the naked portrait cast upon the mirror.
Can you blame me for wanting love? Is not my fault that I am in need.
I start breathing heavily.
LOOK AT ME! Th-this is not normal. In the bed I have secluded my frame to self-satisfaction, the hypnosis of the things that fuel my need for friction, for the warmest of feeling that only the actions of romantic love can provide.
I cry.
I want to be loved.
I grasp my beloved and virgin.
I want to be loved!
Uncovering my fears and discovering the loneliness can lead to drastic measures... Do you blame me for getting here? I am not the only one.
A/N
I know too many people in this state. Please love them. They're not necessarily full of dirty thoughts. A little attention helps. Or so I've seen.
YOU ARE READING
Hidden Mysteries
PoesiePoetry is a fine way to tell you exactly who I am. And yet, you'd still be clueless. But of course, prove me wrong.
