he thinks i don’t like his curves, his lumps; sucking in, standing up straight, shying away. but i run my fingers across them, kiss them, unclothe them. more for me to love; more for me to devour; sweet-as-sugar boy
I remember this... Not curves but emaciation. Dismember this. He turns in shame, ema-shamiation. Theres nothing here to love, in my ribs I store my knives, my gloves.
Faster faster and faster goes,
He is over, though
Through an through,
Beaten black and blue by....
You.
Not curves but emaciation.
Dismember this.
He turns in shame, ema-shamiation.
Theres nothing here to love, in my ribs I store my knives, my gloves.