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I want you to hold my hand and tell me I’m fucking hot;

I want you to touch my head, my face, the tops of my knees, the mole on my breast, keep touching, caress;

I want you to wonder what I’m doing now, right now; to think of me, my presence, my existence, my being, someone you didn’t used to know, someone you’d never seen before, before we met;

I want you to look at me, look right at me, look into my eyes, the blue, the sea, the grey, the sadness, the day, the tears I shed when I cry, the smiles that crack the face when laughter dies;

I want you to undress me, to pull the masks off, to cut the muddied robes I wear that drag, to rip up my armoured vests heavy with jet-lag (a bag I didn’t pack), to prise off the leaded boots weighted by earth’s gloom (the red-rot under my nails);

I want you to pull my skin, pull it, mark it, feel the burn, the friction, the welted skin-on-skin as you lay beside me, on top of me, underneath me, rush-to-the-head-look-at-me, lock in/block out;

I want you to put it there, right there; put your tongue in that, get right in it, lick my hole, lick my hole, fucking lick it, lick it, touch it, touch it, get your tongue right in, right in there, LICK MY HOLE, LICK MY FUCKING ASSHOLE.

Disconnect.

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