His need for me laced with lusted 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 away, seek shelter, and escape from his mischief, he would always find me and reassure me of his need for me.
I was his rebound, and 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 wanted came through.
No wonder I always felt like a secret a castaway put 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 views; sex seems to have that effect.
Uncommitted sex masks my ability to see the truth-truth that he never loved me; he loved what I gave him.
Desired below the waste 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.