That warmth from that special one,
Is the hot guilty sweat,
The passion, saturated in his skin,
from his little whore.

Love is tasteless.
But guilt is sweet,
This betrayle is bitter deceit.

Those butterflies of true love,
Flutter and make me sick
Its like when you try to satify me, its a little prick

In, Out
In, Out
Gasp, breath
Grip tight, Hes come
Fuck me (yeah right)
Hes done

08/24/2007

Author's Note: Not sure what i was thinking!

Posted on 08/24/2007
Copyright © 2025 Emma Turtle