His need for me,
laced with lustful fantasies,
lured me heavily between the sheets.
He was never fully invested in anything beyond my body.
I was his puppet—
controlled by the strings of false promises that he cared.
Deep down,
I knew he wasn’t right for me.
But I continued to allow him to penetrate.
Even when I tried to run,
to seek shelter,
to escape his mischief,
He would always find me—
reassuring me of his need for me.
I was his rebound.
He used my love and loyalty as his muse
to paint a masterpiece of deceit across my heart—
only to pass the time until the woman he truly wanted came along.
No wonder I always felt like a secret—
a castaway placed on a shelf,
only taken down when his need to be pleased beckoned.
What I viewed as love,
he saw as lust.
Both were distorted visions.
Sex has a way of doing that—
distorting the truth.
Uncommitted sex
masked my ability to see clearly—
The truth is that he never loved me.
He loved what I gave him.
Desired below the waist,
while yearning to be loved for what’s above the neck.
How can I blame him, though?
He was only reaping what I sowed—
insecurity.
-Vmack