Miss me. 

I packed my hopes up in cardboard boxes. I am noticed sometimes. Not with a “wow you are so beautiful” but sometimes with a pinch on my butt or a sexual innuendo. 

In between silence spells, I think love exists. 

I don’t hear the words often, but I like to believe they still exist. 

Sometimes, I imagine profile pictures and phone calls to my momma. 

I even go so far as to fantasize emotional and physical safety. 

In my most quieter hours, I find myself imagining not imagining you lusting over another woman. 

On me, but not on top of me. 

My pussy gets the creditable reassurance, 

The “how can I be with anyone else”, 

But my heart rests lonely and unsure. 

“How was your day”, turns into not good enough. 

Phone calls missed never call back. 
I go and look at the beautiful flowers. I buy myself a bouquet. 

I stand in front of the mirror naked. 

I slide my hands up my body, I outline the shape of my waist the roundness of my breasts, the heat of my lips. 

I climax to the idea that you are capable… 

If you only read the words, you miss the sound of the music. 


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