He comes over comfortable
but I always make him writhe,
make him wriggle,
but he just comes again and again,
so maybe he likes it
and keeps his words under his pillow.
He looks away when I look at him,
he knows I want to, but I don't.
I can't and he knows.
Lights go off and hes on the floor,
sleeping.
maybe.
So close to his body, I reach out,
god he feels good
my skin tingles against his heat,
smiling goosebumps against his flesh.
his eyes slam open, my hand up his shirt
he jerks away and my stomach lurches.
"I didn't mean to!" i stammer but he doesn't believe me,
for good reason, because I was lying.
sicko.
freak.
pervert.
queer.
faggot.
Just names in a jar until the last sheet comes out,
unwanted.
I didn't thnk he would but he did.
"Get out" and I can still hear him,
but I didn't want to,
i cried.
I wanted to touch him again.
A contest entry
- confession by philosphyofkate.
9000 points, ended November 18, 43 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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