Dead Weight

I obsessed over you, but I knew it was impermanent. Confused us for chemistry, but it was just all the hormones raging between us. The way your tattoos covered your chest and how I fit perfectly into your armpit. I was too much, and you only wanted a little. I’m always doing the most and wearing the least—the perfect common whore to throw aside when it’s all said and done. On my birthday of all days, feeling a mix of emotions because I was alone celebrating, I just thought it would be comforting to be filled for my twenty-sixth year floating around this planet. The way I dropped to my knees the minute you got us inside and you lifted all one hundred seventy pounds of me off the floor like I was made of paper, carrying me into your room and throwing me onto the bed. I always wanted to feel like a dainty woman being thrown around by a strong man; after all, that is most girls’s dream, right? The masculinity of it all that animalistic need to be dominated. I went four hours out of my way to just exist in your space. You should’ve laid an expectation of what I wanted, but truly being filled was my only urge that my body craved, so I went for it with no regrets. You reminded me of my father, however odd that may sound, an enormous military man with bulked-out muscles. It was just like the way you had a T-shirt with shorts short enough to expose how big your thighs really were and flip-flops on walking with your feet pointing out, not like how I walked in a straight line. I couldn’t help but picture my dad. Thankfully you had tattoos and were the same age as me, so I knew there was truly no correlation. Yet you acted in that way, pleased yourself three times using my body, and paid little attention to my needs and on my birthday. Isn’t it funny because I was infatuated by you? I could’ve pretended that would’ve been enough for me. I wouldn’t have challenged you for not taking care of me; I would’ve come and seen you many more times ignoring any red flag I should’ve paid attention to. I dressed in my prettiest little black dress with just a tiny little thong, and you said you wished I would’ve worn more for you to rip off my body. Funny how I spent more hours by myself on the road than in your bed because, for whatever reason, you didn’t want to wake up next to me in the morning. Embarrassed we’d sweat too much throughout the night thinking your package wasn’t enough for me, jealous of the more endowed men that came before you, but little did you know just the touch of your immensely strong hands on my body was satisfying enough to be better than any large cock I’ve had. How was it that you couldn’t see that? Too focused where you weren’t enough, bulking up to become a giant so maybe everyone on the outside could see you as sufficient. Well, keep on lifting hundreds of pounds in order to feel adequate, ignoring the attention of a hot goth girl that was supposedly a dream come true to you.