His lips had marked me as his own and his rough hands had held every ounce of my being
But he was not mine
He owned me
My body
My soul
My heart
But he was not mine
His voice was all I craved
His sweet
His soft
His angelic voice
But he was not mine
His body was my drug
His rough hands
His chapped lips
His bruised skin
But he was not mine
{m}
YOU ARE READING
Perfect Kind of Hell
Poetry'The torture of loving you was addicting You were like a drug that was forever in my veins Your harsh words did nothing but make me crave you more And your cruel hands did nothing but make me want to please you Everyone told me you were hell, an...
