I still think about how you feel inside of me. In every way you’ve been within me. Your tongue, fingers, cock, soul, heart, love, mind, lies, pain, promises. In the heat of lust I can grow cold with the memories of you within. My breath stops and I tighten with want of you. Sometimes I still need you inside of me, your hungry thrust and groan, mouth ajar, intense eyes seeing through me.
What did you see when you looked at me then?
Even as I fuck myself thinking about you, biting my lip, holding my breath, keeping myself silent so not to be heard by the man upstairs, I can grow suddenly still with the reminder of your pain. I pinch my own nipple thinking of your hands. The hands I loved to hold, to feel move roughly across my skin, to slide inside me and curl upwards, inwards, twisting and pounding.
Those fingertips. I lost wars to those digits. You explored every bit of me with them. You memorized my expressions and sounds. You made a map out of my responses to you until you could play me as a fine instrument. I was your delight.
Not a day goes by I don’t think of what you left inside me. The pain you pushed on me, giving it as a gift to my breast, deposited its toxins in my heart even as you pulled my hair to whisper that I belonged to you in my ear. I wish I had laughed at you, called you back from the fantasy where I was a possession.
I wish a lot of things about us.
Do you? Do you think of my lips around your length and the feel of the back of my throat? Do you dream of your lips against my ear, hand on my throat, laying claim to my soul instead of my flesh?
I heard you when you claimed my emotions, my heart, and especially my growth. As though you planted the seed of recovery inside of me and it grew a flower with your scrawling signature on every petal.
That was when I ripped out your plants and called them weeds. I cleaned my garden of you then and there. There would never be another flower called yours.
You would never be inside me again.
All my love,
I Belong to No Man