Written In Haste With Sweaty Palms

She was an emotional, manipulative yet loyal, angry and hungry poet with trust issues and a sense of humour she didn't know about. Her passion for art grew from stems of hatred, lust, anger and betrayal. She refused to dance, she hated the smell of happiness yet she wished she would find something like that for herself.

Everyday she bathed herself in self pity and memories of all the love she had given up in moments of selfishness. She thought about times she had forced the truth with her fake tears and fear out of people just to be sure how far they'll go for her.

Yet, she would lazy around and fling the sheets over herself when they wanted to leave, she didn't fight for them. Only when the dreams gave her scars. Only then did she wear her coat and go after them.

She loved in the secrecy of her solitude, in her room of many faces. She wore a new face everyday, a new lie about how okay she was. Meanwhile on the inside, she suffered a new death everyday.

She would never leave her heart in your hands and runs far away from love. She can't take it. She can't help herself, she can only love herself, nobody is worthy of her love and she is not worthy of yours but you can't help it. You can help but give her everything you have.

No matter how far she runs, no matter how far she strays, she comes back even if you were never waiting. She can't give up. She wants to, she can't.

Divine Poetry - 3

The Birth Of Cupid
Divine Inyang Titus

They say they met
In the heat of battle.
She'd watched on a silver cloud
As he slayed the thousands,
As his breath became jagged darts of death..
He was gold haired,
And defiantly handsome.
His chest rose like a brazen tower
To the winds;
And in the whiteness of his beards
A passion lurked,
Whose sensual tentacles would prick her heart
Forever...
He watched her too
On the drifting silver cloud,
Impossible, in that moon colored dress
That ran down her sublime body
And billowed eternally behind her.
Her face wore the texture of grace,
And he could not cease to wonder
What such transcendental beauty
Sought in the gripping grimness
Of war...
But she was crying..
Her eyes, were drooling out soft, passionate waters
In defined trickles,
And even still,
Her essence blazed with the fires of a passion
Even he found impossible to resist..
So he flew from his throne of blood
And met her, there on the silver cloud,
And in the first instant their scents connected,
They welded into their grave passion
And as lips filled lips
And tongues filled mouths,
And hands filled bodies,
And the god filled the goddess
And they reach the flaming zenith of their passion,
And the oceans lost their banks...
A golden youth burst forth..
He had the softness of her eyes,
And the divineness of his frame..
He shone with a blistering brilliance that surpassed them both
And behind him, a pair of silver wings fluttered in pure ecstasy.
He was young, and remained so.
In his beauty, there arose meaning,
And in his soul was a purity,
Haloed by an interminable love.
He became love..
For indeed,
In his heart, was her love,
And in his hands were his bow.
But also a blazing torch,
From which would proceed
The flames of mad desire
That burnt,
And that scourged sight..
And his name was called..

Divine Poetry - 2

INFINITE PASSIONS
Divine Inyang Titus

He can now touch his desire.
Run his burning fingers through
The consuming fire;
Yell at the the scalding heat;
With his confounded ardour,
His haunted zeal;
And his night is the victim of his fury,
No peace for them.
Marooned in his fervent longings
With a sizzling passion;
Fierce and almost..almost cursed.

True. Offspring of those two mighty stars
Of infinite passions;
Of war and love
Must have buried his arrow in him;
Let the golden head sink
Deep into blood and flesh,
And drawn from within
The darkest pigments of yearning;
Freed with a lasting wildness,
The guarded beasts of his lust.

No where to run from himself.
Tied to his shadow
By little, invisible strings
That would never cut.
As though now
His shadow represents his want;
His beserk needs to exercise
The starved limbs of his passion...

He will search sacred texts.
He will spill hot wax on his skin
And shriek, and scream, yet
Scouring in furious delirium for the spells,
The spells to undo this madness..
To appease this conflagration
For it burns as hot and as wild as hell.
And the pain is too deep,
For even the unknown parts of his soul
Writhes from its torture..

Then he will search for pain!
For that will be the only other alternative.
He will mutilate his body
And make clear incisions on his skin.
He will write the name of his passion
On his forehead, and he will make tattoos
Of its figure on his soul.
Still, he will not be sated,
Or even remotely at peace.
So he will scale to the top of the North Sister.
He will suck in the cold on bare skin.
He will hurl himself down from her peak
To the feet of his passion.
Still, he will not be at peace.

Then finally, after all is done;
After all have failed and blundered,
He will turn to his passion,
And embrace it,
Without fear or scruple,
And even if he is rejected,
He may yet have,
Some peace for the night.

Divine Poetry - 1

BOW AND LAKE
Divine Inyang Titus

There is a bow
And there is a lake.
There is the scar
Where he lies awake.

Beneath the tangled waste
Of forgotten music,
A reminder of pain,
The piercings of Cupid.

The waters of sin
Must begin their thirsty days
Arush through my hot throat,
Wildly in search of hate.

Here, beholding a brown mirror,
With rose and scented balm,
I am dirty, without a sweat
And at peace with the uneven calm.

I am the proud teller
Of the stained and bleeding lore;
Of the vain legends,
Of him who hurts with love.

The lyre's wailings,
The harp's sharp, stinging tears;
The fingers that play them
Pluck the hurt of a million years.

I, again, am the proud singer
Of the immortal tribal song;
Sung to sharpen the very arrow
That reddens the memories I had flung.

I am settler in a desert of sad tales.
Wafter in the cluster of red clouds, there.
The one who was hurt with love,
The one whose pains are too loud to hear.

Yes. There is a bow.
But no more lake, now dead ground.
And there, the blazing scar.
Over which his watchful wings make not a sound.

Something Short

I love my lover with a D.
D is for the desires hidden in day dreams. D is for the depth of the pleasures he gives me. D is for the deep darkness living inside him. 

I love my lover with an M. 
M is for being the muse I travel to when my mind has lost its path. M is for the music beneath my feet when he touches me. 

Somewhere in there, is an R. R is for the raging storms of fire that build up with every passing second. R is for rain, the sweet smell of rain, sweet smell of nature.

Beneath that carefully put together fence of bricks is a C. C for care, maybe courage. Or the bottles of Cognac or the burnt out cigarettes we shared in our own silence. 

H is for happiness, an unexplainable happiness that explores no bounds. 

I love him with everything, and I guess that's an E. 

Can You Hear Me?

I wish I could hear the butterflies, just the way I see them. I wish I knew what songs the birds sing in the morning by my window. I wish I could hear my mother pray for me.

Each time I strain, hoping maybe they're just not loud enough, all I hear is silence and darkness. An aching absence. Silence that ties you up, constrains you, keeps you awake, Blinds you and gives nightmares. You can actually hear them in your dreams. 

I wish I could hear you say 'I love you.' 
I wish you could hear me say it back. 
I can't seem to find my voice. I think fear swallowed it. I wish you could hear you, I wish you could hear me. I wish I could hear say my name, feel what it sound likes hanging off the corner of your lips. I wish you could hear how happy I am, being close to me. 

I can't hear you. What did you say? Kiss me, maybe I'll hear it then. 

Tears At A Funeral

©malantha

••••
The grass dances to the dirge, the solemn farewell songs of the birds, but for this and the tears of his one true lover, all was silent.

As the story goes, he had slipped on his drunkenness, missed his footing and tumbled down the stairs, rolling down till he bled out his last at the foot of the stairs. They don't know the truth, they know how his wickedness led him to his own grave. They don't know the truth of his heart and the sins of his one true lover.

It was a cold windy night when he stepped into the house, reeking of alcohol, smoke and a woman's perfume. Every night was the same, painful grips and blows that left hate on her pretty face. She had to run from the one she loved, she could because she was afraid he might push her, she could not sing. She was afraid he might steal her voice like he stole her freedom and dignity. She would tell herself, it wasn't his fault but every time her friends asked why she wouldn't take off her shades, she blamed him inside and out. 

So that night, the water had reached her neck, choking and forcing all her rage out. He had his hands on her neck once again, and she had a knife in her pocket. A tear for every night on the left, and tears of joy to be done from the hold. She gave him one last kiss, before letting him go. She dipped the knife in slowly, relishing the final taste of his lips that turned to victory. Then she let him fall, down the stairs, tumbling slowly to the end, right where she needed him. 

So while they sit around her in comfort, she feels the need to get up and dance. They don't know that she doesn't need their comfort, she just needs them to dance with her. They don't know that the tears that fall are that of joy. They don't know her heart lacks regret, but there is new life bursting through the ends of her veins, she has found strength by the grave of her one true lover. She can dance without fear of being pushed. 

Hey There!

First of all, I am sincerely sorry for not posting anything in a while, but I hope you love the new look, especially the girl in the background. She's got a beautiful smile doesn't she? 
Hopefully, 2018 will be a better year. I wish you the very best this holidays and Merry Christmas in Advance.

I want to thank my readers for all the support, shares, reposts and retweets. It gives me joy to see and know that I am not alone in this. It encourages me, despite my many shortcomings concerning the blog. Thank you. God loves you.

P. S Bish The Anonymous has decided to be regular face here, more of her adventures coming up.

Stay true to yourself, stay beautiful.

- What's the best thing about this season?

All the love and joy.

LIFE

We can never always get what we want or who we want. We wish for many things that sometimes never get to come to us. Money, love, friends.. A good life. Some of us have planned our lives in such perfect arrangement, even up until the day we are going to die. Sadly, life never gives us all we want, even if it does give us what we want, it's either half of it or maybe nothing at all.

Secret is to not expect too much out of life, expect good things but be prepared for the bad things that will come along because nothing good comes easy. Come to think of it, it's all these that make life interesting. What would life be like if everything came easy? What's life without a little hustle, a little traffic, a little pain... A little sorrow. These things give life extra meaning, something to fight for you know...

It's up to you to learn from these. Learn from mistakes and experiences, they'll help you get though the next phase of life which would probably be more difficult. They say, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Enjoy life too, make the most out of all of it. You only live once remember? Instead of wasting time complaining and contemplating why life treats you the way it does, you could go out with the few real friends you have and learn a little about the good side of life. Discover, be part of something new or old. There's so much out there hiding under all that badness. Just live it out. It doesn't get any easier.

Febuary 14th

'You can't get tired of Freedom.'

So on Valentine's day, I went out with a friend. We just wanted ice cream. By 10pm. We didn't expect anywhere would be closed so early but shockingly it was. This is not a story about our adventure, it was a very boring one. Music, Weed, lights and lots of half naked people. This is a story of how I fell in love with the touch of a certain fellow over night.

It was a hot old music studio, we sat on the old peeling couch talking about all the things we loved to do. All the people we love or rather the girl he loved. I was much more into the music of the night. Then slowly we slipped into something else, something I've never felt before, I don't know about him but I knew life that day. A little joy, a little pleasure in between. He ran his fingers down my arms, pulled my strings like he would his guitar.  

Then we talked some more, about things other people loved, the people we know, it's sad thinking about now. Then he kissed me, he kissed me like he meant it, like it was me he had in mind, I kissed back like I meant it. It didn't take long for hands to travel, for feelings to fly over our heads. He pulled back and looked into my eyes, I wonder what he was looking for. I found what I was looking for, nothingness.

He kissed me again, told me he loved the feeling of my hands on his face, it probably felt like temporary joy, the same way his hands felt in between legs. Pulling me close, taking me high up, giving me the little love he had left over from his broken heart, replacing my pain with something new.

I fell asleep buried in his warmth, I woke up the next morning cold and alone. We're never going back there though, we don't talk anymore. I wonder if he still remembers. Don't be mistaken, I don't love him. It's just the idea of him.

This Is What Love Feels Like

It's a like party inside your head, joy flowing through every vain. You don't know how to dance but you dance anyway. A reason to look more carefully when you cross the road, happiness with no borders, flowing like a river in and out of your soul.

It's like lying down on a bed of feathers, tickling and relaxing. Love makes you run, makes you jump  over cliffs with no worries of breaking because you know your lover waits to catch you. This is what love feels like..

It feels like a song. The song of birds in the early morning. It feels like your favourite song, you can't help but take off your shoes and just feel the softness of the carpet.

But love is also pain, love is also the sound of breaking bones. Love also feels like sand paper, like tasteless soup, like hot water on your skin. Love also feels like sadness, like the clouds have left you and Sun has lost it's shine. Love feels like a big empty house, feels like the prickling of blades of dry grass, feels like the sting of many bees.

Poetry - If Our Love Was A StoryBook

I fell inside a love story.
Each chapter was covered in
Lines of hope and desire...
Peace.. 
All that I've always yearned for.

So I walked the pages
Hand in hand with my lover.
Taking my time, feeling the heat
In every letter.
Breathed in each full stop knowing
Another sentence, another chapter waits.

Slowly, we reached our climax,
But then like every good story,
We came to an end.

Untitled

She woke up not wanting the  be awake. The sunlight felt like an enemy crawling on her skin, as she struggled to unwrap herself from the sheets. She had tossed so much in the night that she trapped herself within. Her dreams came back to her, the storm that chased her, the mocking moon. She had seen him too, as always, waiting on the other side, dressed in white, eyes like fire and a bleeding hole where his heart should be.  She could see him walking on water towards her, pale hands stretched out for her, to save her but before she could step over the bank of the river, the tide would toss her into the morning.

She placed her feet on the tiles, eyes closed , away from the open window. She could hear her mother call, she waited. She waited for the cold to reach her chest. It did not. She did this every Saturday, waiting for death. Trimmed her hair every Friday, to look pretty for Death.

Her mother called again, and she ignored it. She was still waiting.
'Hope! I've been calling.. ' Her mother was in the room Now.
'I'm coming. Please go.' Her mother hesitated but she saw this every Saturday, she gathered herself and left.

As she raised herself from the bed to follow her mother, she felt it in her stomach first. The drugs, turning in circles, drilling in and churning out. She felt the fangs digging in, causing pain. Her mouth opened wide, but no words fell out. The cold travelled down her legs, tickling her feet, then it ran back up, reaching her stomach, one last down before starting a slow trek to her head. Her body convulsed, as the pain trekked backwards towards her heart and swallowed it.

She could finally touch his hand.

Becoming Light Mark

*******
It was in the year of our Lord; 2014.
Then when church services were the very stitches that kept our bruised souls and bodies together.
Church on campus was the closest synonym to 'home',  it was a kind of expression place for youths.
We learnt our greatest lessons not from preachers or church elders but from students like us, who had been within the Christian family for long.  Confidence, charisma and sincerity, their key features worthy of emulation.

Amongst these older students was this unlikely one. He had a different approach of expressing those three sterling qualities.
The very obvious was his odd hairdo and  uncanny way of using words.
Every passing Sunday, he requested for few minutes which he used in dishing special truth in his unique poetic pattern. I love the word art, particularly because it seemed a bit different from pure recitals. His unpopular way of expressing himself earned him several critics to the art he called 'SPOKEN WORD'.

One Sunday morning, I watched him present a piece and somehow I felt this strange urge to whisper something to the guy next to me. I muttered
"I can do that, you know?"
"Then do it" He replied.
It sounded like a good plan. That laconic, creatively phrased statement birthed my eventful journey through the art of performing poetry.

I spent lots of my leisure time with my 'creepy- hair- teacher' and soon a came up with a better plan. I wanted to know more about the art than any secret poet hiding within the creeks of the University of Uyo. Being an audiovisual learner, YouTube became top on my list. I spent lots of hours streaming, marveled and intimidated by what the white guys were doing with the art. I started scribbling stuff, mostly nonsense wonderings but I continued. When ever I felt like it wasn't doing me any good, I just typed 'SPOKEN WORD' in YouTube's search box and I was too sure to be blown away.

I was self conscious and wanted to perfect the art before getting on stage but the idea alone was both frustrating and draining. It would take too long to master the art. Then I got a hunch
"How about writing and performing, get feedbacks and improve?"

That looked like something worth trying so I took a week to write down the first poem, I intended performing on stage. Practiced the piece severally, till I felt it was fair enough. Finally, the glorious Sunday morning arrived. I was told that right after the testimonies, I would be performing. My nervousness took the best of me, I felt everything was just too slow. I wanted to get on stage and spill all the words lurking the corners of my head.
Gently and slowly the seconds crawled, the minutes rolling behind it and the moment came. All the dramatic testimonies and happy songs were over. The man with the mic said something along the lines of 'Poetic Ministration by Light Mark'.

I took a slow melancholic walk to the mic and that's all I can remember...
.
.
.

Okay, I recalled that people clapped and I walked back to my seat.
Feedbacks? Yes Feedbacks! Very essential in the career of an artiste.
I had two notable feedbacks. After service a lady walked up to me and said
"I loved your speech. It got to me!"
Yea. Positive by I unintentionally gave a speech, probably it didn't sound like a poem.
The second comment came from a 'slow-witted' drummer boy who said
"That wasn't a poem. You are not a poet, you are a 'poeter'."

I certainly didn't know what laid ahead of me in regards to poetry but I was sure I didn't want to be a 'Poeter' neither do I want to give speeches unintentionally.
So I left church telling myself that I'll do the best I can to learn about the art and that's what I have been doing every single day after that.

Definition of No

Your heart is unwilling but your mouth can't move to express it's unwillingness. So you lay there, pressed by the weight of the ugly dominance of the man you call your lover. This is how supposed to be isn't it? He is your lover by the ring and this is his right. You have no right to 'NO'. You killed yourself .

Your friends are in the next room, and you're in the kitchen when he slips in quietly to tell you he loves you, his hands match your quiet resistance. You don't want to cause any trouble, you don't want to make any noise. So he takes you on the kitchen floor, because he can't hear you shouting 'NO' in your head. You hit your head hard on the tiles, you're dead.

You went to the house of your friend, to watch a movie. Friends for long, he agreed to keep it clean and platonic. It's been 4 years. You have a boyfriend, it's been 3 months. You're sitting on his bed, like you normally do. You're wearing a short skirt, the same one you wear other times. He rips it from you and when you go home and you tell your story, they said you asked for it because you went to his house even though you said 'NO'. Your boyfriend broke up with you.

This is you on a date. You've never done this before, he buys you a lot of things. A new dress too, you slip in a few chocolate bars. When it's time to go home, he says it's time to be grateful. You don't understand, and he says he'll show you. His fingers begin their trek up your lap and you slap them away with yours. You say you can't do it. You say 'NO', but he shows you anyway how to be grateful in his car. The car got hit by another car, you're both dead.

Finally, that's you. Doing your job, not minding the snide remarks condemning you and what you do. You thought you had a choice and could walk when you want to.  But he takes you in his office and forces your 'NO' back down your throat. You're dead.

Truth Tea

We feel out of place and weird sometimes. We feel like we need to change ourselves to fit in some unwritten but seemingly necessary standard. We turn ourselves to zombies, ignoring our needs and who we truly are in the struggle for acceptance. Because if you're not what society wants, then you are a nobody.

With this mentality, we have created for ourselves a bridge, many bridges with walls in the middle that separates one kind of people from the other. The normal/acceptable vs the Eccentric/Free thinking.  Followers vs The Ones who ask questions.

The rich, the middle class, the low class and the lowest of them all - Citizens of the Bridge.

Thing is, no matter how much we struggle, we will never be really part of one of another. People might at some point learn to tolerate and accept but inside we know we're better off than the other and so even as we try to suppress our pride and wear cloaks of humility, there are only cloaks.

You're better off than her and the only miracle that can happen is hardwork and determination. You'll always be either above or below. One person has to be below to be able another person to get to the point.

There'll always be poor ugly people, rich ugly people, poor beautiful people and rich beautiful people.

The trick is to be nice to the children of the universe and the universe can only be kind to you in return.

The Beauty of Us

For the one I have now fallen in love with..

I'm lying in my bed and you come to mind again. Memories, short ones but they make my heart race anyway. Like when I woke up to your face, I want that now. Everyday. Or like when I met you for the first time and you told me your name but I already knew. Or like when I felt your smile and bathed in your laughter, or like when I got to truly feel your skin and taste your lips.

Remember that night, we shared a blanket and we talked about how the school system was ruining us.

I remember you telling me 'Not tonight.' and seeing pieces of my heart at my feet. We didn't talk for days, I see you pass and all I could do was breathe in the air around you. Watch you walk and watch you laugh. Watch you pay attention to another while my heart sang songs of jealousy.

While I loved him, I liked you. No other from the two of you. I can't have him but I can have you. So why are you running away? Why are you so far? Why won't you take a leap, maybe not for me but for the sake of yourself.

I wonder if your beauty would match mine? I would if it would be like the same in my dreams, where you move and I move and the only thing holding us back is nothing.

In my dreams, the waves swings us on its edges and throws us high up to cloud nine. And then we swing high and fast.. Then we go low and slow. Then we cry because we're in love with what we are.

My First Love - Julius Tunde Ige

Nine years passed and I vividly remember how it all began.

**

Few months after Dad passed away, I  was still buried deep in the grief of His death. Tormented in my sleep and became a bully overnight. The calm and loving me turned out to be the feared little boy in the neighborhood. Though I was little- barely ten, I knew what it means to loose a loved one and that emotional pain attached to the visit of death followed me. I made myself a prisoner without prisons, termed my black mind a tinted one since light couldn't pass through. All these went on until one evening, when I heard voices, tiny voices. I tried decoding what they said but ended behaving like a psycopath.

One year after the terrific hit I got from fate, I stumbled upon this work of creation while my heart was roaming, seeking answers to what my innocent head had done. 

"Sorry", I said as I tried walking pass her. Her gentle arm pulled me back. I was scared. Words can't fathom the degree of cold that enveloped my spleen. I was scared because I couldn't beat her; unlike the smaller girls in the neighborhood. Gently I drew myself back and looked into her her eyes. The innocence they bore made my racing heart come to a halt. Then she noticed how helpless and devastated I looked. I was able to read the pity she had for me written in black and white, all over her face.

From then, we became friends.
Years have passed and I  grew to fall in love with this awesome being. She seemed to direct my thoughts to my fingers that made what I thought appear in paper. On one occasion when my anger level threatened to rise above its boundaries, she held me down and asked me to write Dad a letter telling him how much I was hurt in this lonely world. She gave me a million and one reasons to thrive on. She gave me the happiness I missed, opened my eyes to the realities of what life can offer if I took her as a wife.
"I'm still young "I replied to her request feeling naive of what she meant.
"It doesn't matter, you can still take me in and no one will get to know about it" She replied, sounding more convincing this time.

Ever since that moment, I fell for the agreement. I kept her as a secret companion who has paid attention to the multitude of challenges that come and also, has provided solutions to them. The greatest thing this love of my life has helped me do is to free the demons in my head. The tiny voices I hear in the past, and still hear till this moment were freed by this awesome love.

There is much to say, much to write about this being known by everyone but special to me. A being known has Poetry transformed me into this crazy person who is yet to unveil what lies in him.

With Poetry, my journey is yet to begin. The demons in me are yet to be unleashed and the tour of happiness is just yet to kick off.

Late Night Wanderings - 'YOU'

If only we could love ourselves completely like we're supposed to, I'm sure we'd all be happy people.

But we can't, so why not just work with the love you've got already. I've talked about this before, but I spent a lot of time telling you that you can't love yourself instead of telling you to learn and be joyful with what you've got.

I'm not an expert in these things, I myself, I'm still learning. Still learning how to work my way around body Love but I could tell you about the few things I've learnt.
Opening up is important, if you bottle up your feelings about your body and how you feel about the way talk about it, then it could get worse. You would end up feeling ignored and depressed when I'm truth, your ignoring yourself. Have someone you can rant to about these things, you will certainly feel better about the whole thing. Like now..

You should smile more often, no matter how much it hurts, smile so hard, you wonder what you're smiling at that you forget how much it hurts. Give someone a smile and trust me when the person smiles back, it's food for the soul.

Get busy, get involved, learn a skill, get a hobby, go out, discover, put yourself out there... Just improve on yourself because in the end, all is vanity and you're still very okay.

-What's your favorite song? Why?

Learning About Full Consent

Warning : Explicit Content : Lots of F-words

* * * *
Legal sex is when you say yes with your heart and mouth.
Illegal sex is when you unwillingly say yes because they are not giving you an option.

This is someone you trust.
This is your friend.
This is someone you admire.

Lucky for you, you remembered to finger the pain the way.
So when he came like a known stranger,
It didn't hurt as much.
You faked ecstasy thinking if you acted like pleasure made you tired,
He'd stop.

No, he continued.
He fucked your innocence into a hole full of more fucks to come.

Till today, you wonder why you didn't scream.
Even if there was no one home.
3 years later, you feel like you betrayed your own self.

Still, even with the most experienced
Sex feels like a lost cause.
So you fake your way through one time stands, porn and hook ups with your best friends.

Romantic foreplay is so much better.
Yet skip the I love you's
That means nothing to a
Dysfunctional bitch lover with a big heart.

Today, they tell you..
You had a choice, but you remember his strong grip and how he gulit-tripped you into his cousin's bed.

Asked you why you let him beg for what's his.
This is your body we're talking about.
Those soft sagging breasts
Diamond encrusted back
And stretch mark filled ass is his...
Was his.

Today is a new year
Your body is yours.
So you touch yourself to an unreachable orgasm
Fuck your way way to Pretence-ville
And you come out without cumming, flip them the finger and listen to them call you
A heartless bitch.

What was his name again?
You don't remember.
I know you do, hope you don't forget later and name your son after the devil.

That is, if you're not afraid to have children.

-What's your biggest fear?

-