He's tired of this

And you know it

The guilt trips,

Negative energy.

You're fucking up your own relationship.

But when he holds you

Or you hold him

Or you're both just lying there,

Arms intertwined,

Whoever is or isn't doing the holding…

You and he are both

Not really.

You're not really holding

You're not really satisfied

You're not really in love

You're not really there

And it becomes the truth—

All that not really telling the truth.

You're lying so much, you begin to believe it.

Or pretend to.

It sure as hell beats being alone.

So when he fucks you,

When you moan into his chest,

And he cries in pleasure,

His (let's face it) rather small cock

Just hitting the spot

Just hitting the spot,

Moaning

Panting

Yelling

Moving

Sweating

WET

You realize

He's not really hitting the spot

You're not really moaning of pleasure,

But of impatience

He's not really naked

(His socks are still on. He could at least take them off)

You're not really impressed.

And you find yourself spending less time

Focusing on being better

Doing better

And figure, this is as good as it gets.

And it happens again and again.

You lie at home watching pornos

While he's out filming old homeless men surviving the 'ole frontier' of NYC

And when he gets home, you're naked,

Waiting for him.

You're too hot for him

And he knows it

But you gracefully undress him

And push him towards the sofa

And take charge…

Pushing

Him

Down

Onto the sofa with a thud.

You show him all the interesting things you learned on TV that day.

Straddle him and tease him,

Rubbing against his chest with your wet sex.

He surprised you by

MOVING

In a way that moves you, too

From his chest to his pelvis

And soon he's inside you

And you're rocking to a beat in your head

To a song you made up earlier that day

And he has no rhythm.

But you're not really rocking as much as swaying

And he's not really moving as much as you're pushing him

And you're not really naked

(You never let down your walls, not even for him)

And you're not really in it.

He's not really, either.

So when he finds you with Joanne,

And she's really hitting the spot,

He's not really surprised.

You're not really embarrassed because

"Joanne's not really a thing"

But the relationship is not really

Going to work out.

Because Joanne is really a thing.

She really does hold you,

And she does more than fuck you—

She makes love to you,

And she really hits the spot

And she takes off her socks during sex

And she lets you let down your walls around her

And you are both truly naked around each other

And she motivates you to go out

And so when you both get back,

It's not an already-naked Eve undressing Adam,

It's two, sharing in the naughty

Undressing each other

And eating each other's apples

Because who needs that fucking garden anyway?

You or Joanne?

Not really.


AN-i wrote this for a lemon-off with a friend. not the best lemon i've ever written, but I like the poem. it's probably one of the best poems. lmao. sorry about the spacing issue. the words aren't supposed to be that far apart, from the left to the right to the middle, but...what can you do?

review plz!

-Jazz