You Don’t Know…

No slow motion.

It’s that revenge shit, where he tested this flexibility and made my walls remember him, because you didn’t.

It’s that hate passion, that raw fucking, where he didn’t even put his lips to mine but instead sucked on my neck to leave a reminder, to make you remember these lips are yours.

But you don’t know.  You don’t know.

It’s that mad fucking, that make-time-for-me-motherfucker fucking, that you’re-gonna-miss-your-boo-when-I-make-her-mine sex, the one you’ll wish you could get back fucking.

It’s that sad sex, the one that made me close my eyes tight and imagine you instead of him, the tears threatening a pool in my ears because you weren’t there, you weren’t here, you weren’t.

And my body knew it wasn’t you, even with my eyes forced shut, it wasn’t you because you didn’t feel right, it wasn’t your skin, your breath, your touch, your moans, your voice, it wasn’t your size inside, it wasn’t your love inside. 

But you don’t know.  You don’t know.

And I lay here spent, aching from his fucking, aching from his workout on me, hurting from this pain in my heart that’s torn.

All because you don’t know.

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