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
