Artisan

In your hands my body belongs as if it was genetically crafted to fit your touch. You tease my senses each time that we connect and I feel an electric like sensation streaming throughout my entire body.

Your strength makes me weak and I obey your every move. I give in and am fully yours. I bend and stretch to your command as if you were a potter and I was your clay. Your grip is firm and powerful.

The contrast of black and white becomes a tangled sculpture, a piece of art in motion. The intensity of us bursts out into a blur of colour and lust. You could mould me into shape again and again.

You are an artisan, working to perfection.
And I, I am your raw material wanting for your creativity to take over.

Adjusting Pressure

As I am a woman who is led by my emotions,

I can only assume that you are one of the same kind.

But where I reveal my sorrow in words,

you keep yours close to your heart, close to yourself,

closed, locked, kept safe within you.

Little pieces of pain that are better freed,

merely to get rid of but you keep in

as if you took pleasure in the torture that they cause.

Maybe you have been mislead to believe

that you are meant to suffer in silence.

The closest that I can get to your misery

is by the touch of your tears

after they gather in the corner of your eyes

to then slowly roll down your cheeks for me to wipe off.

I know my tears taste salty and

I have the feeling that yours must be bitter.

Bitter drops of relieved agony,

better not caged within your body

for they would ignite your insides.

Therefore do not envy the ones who cannot cry

as they are burning quietly.

I would not care if your tears burned my fingers as I wipe them off,

for I rather have my fingers hurt than your face scarred by them.

I need you to know that time does not heal all wounds,

do not be fooled,

for I know that this is nothing but a myth,

a make-believe.

Do not waste your precious time waiting for salvation.

I wished I could teach you how to use your voice

to adjust the pressure within you,

so that you could take this massive load of your soul

and be free like you crave to.

Naked Cravings

You stood me up while I was naked. Left me with your fingerprints all over my body, the memory of your kiss on my lips, the sweet juice of excitement between my legs, craving for more. Craving you.
I'm still naked although dressed. I'm still exposed although covered with my duvet. I'm still wet although alone. I'm still craving for more. Craving you.

You stood me up while I was naked. Said you had to run. Stole my last kisses in a haste. Left me with more fingerprints that now burn my skin. I love this burning sensation. I want more. I want you.
Play Connect the Dots on my body to burn me some more. Burn my breasts, my back, my hips, my thighs, my clit, my lips. Burn me inside out.

You stood me up while I was naked. You left me with an experience that now seems impossible to cover up with clothes, wash off with a shower, wipe out with a night's sleep. When you left, you left me naked.
You took the clothes that could cover me, the water that could shower me, the dreams that could have wiped out this memory that begs and craves for more. Craves for you.

'I miss you so bad' you said. I shall peel my skin off slowly, carefully, for you to keep. Take the fingerprints, take the burns, take the craving. Feel my nakedness on your fingertips and burn yourself.
My skin will grow back, fresh, young and smooth. Without marks. Without burns. Without prints. Without memory. Without the feeling of nakedness and exposure. But until then I'll still be craving for more. Craving you.