the hands of a man's love placed on my inner thigh, the rose bed creeks in rhythm as i lie.
in and out, in and out.
sex is something so special to a girl, women can understand me, all it takes is a few special words and a intimate lean.
the hands of a man are to touch what he wants and what is his, i never had nothing to myself everything i am is his.
the grab of my shoulders to be pushed down on the unmade bed gets less unpleasant each time, the relentless rocking motion and the taste of salty lime.
the seven motioned minutes lasting, leaving me sad and screwed up into a ball in the corner of the room, the fools game to play in a full moon.
the morning after is always the same, the man's hands leave my body sore scars and red imprinted marks. the man has banished into the thin air and all i'm longing for is a morning coffee while i'm in bed bare.
YOU ARE READING
every inch of his manhood
Poetrymen aren't real there just pictures in our minds and the colours on paintings
