Wanna Be

He called me white trash. I have his birth year tatted on my arm. He said I love you for the second time while he was in my mouth. Is this what love feels like? Couldn’t be. Only an image of a fantasy I’ve created in my head.

Can’t get you out of mind, yet I only ever feel half with you when I’m with you. Maybe only even ten percent of me is there. So conflicted, one minute I want you I can’t enough of you.

I tatted your birth year on my body, call you daddy but you aren’t my father. You said you love me, was it only the lines of coke and the fact I gave you a feeling you’ve never felt before? You chalked it up to love because the English language is so limited? I’m just a wanna-be and I am everything you wanna have as ours but you can’t make me yours.

So what does that make me? More than your mistress but I’m only around at night when you’re drunk and horny. When you call, you call for me and only me. Lost in a feeling of being wanted and needed, lost in your arms when you cuddle me to sleep until you wake me up in the morning inside me and I’m reminded of my purpose, a task I have to fulfill the ability to fulfill all the fantasies you’ve been dreaming of me since the moment testosterone entered your body and the lust of what you wanted took control of your body. Is that ever enough?