A Colloquial Story

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When the berry does not belong to us, the juice tends to taste sweeter. Trauma bonded and hard wired, we search for love in the most daring of places and we pound our stamp to declare it ours, no postal code ncessary.  Our territory, marked with a ragged flag, that refuses to sway even in the roughest wind. On top of that, the flag is red but blind we are and blind we persist, for red flags seem to feed that hunger and make us oblivious to danger. When Poseidon sees the way we gush and flow, water spilling at every caress, and the games the one we claim plays with his slithering tongue, yes! Even the God of water snarls profusely, demanding our dams to close. 

No shame because the people man sweet, honey- like too......... yet, preposterous because the lingering aftertaste is bitterness. Yet, we crave it, get high on it, stay addicted to it, at this point, damn near needing a purge. Then there's something about being hidden in the backseat that makes us ooze, or the way we relish that we are his best kept secret, or the way we pass her and smile to ourselves thinking "haha she does not know," yuck, what do we think in those moments? Lemme guess, "he loves me, right?" Or staring in his eyes while he makes you cum, right up to him and there he snatches the very breath that God worked so hard to breathe into the first man's lungs. And you honour God, by turning around and taking a next gyal man. You and Eve could be buddies, snake-ass thieves. Audacity has been at its peak year round, and magma chambers are gurgling, ready to spew in disbelief.

But as someone who's tasted the juice, and came back to the fridge relentlessly to take forbidden sips, and jacked up the electricity bill because it was open and close, open and close, open and close, I empathise with the addiction. That slow creeping desire that leeches upon your synapses, controlling your nerve endings, turning your brain into a fool. Wake up and see that you're standing on the side, never to be acknowledged enough to be brought into the light and claimed...where's your ring, huh?.
Well the ugly toad he bashes and claims to not love wears it, the one he has portrayed as a monster to you because he wanted to enter your mines and burn your coal, well yeah, she's at home and the house, the mortgage, the car, the tout baguy is hers. She ain't going nowhere. I hope you're saving though. 

A colloquial story, will you listen, shall you dare? A piece of you deteriorates everytime you let that man excavate. Orgasm over self-worth, which do you declare? Yeah, yeah, I know...man shortage, man shortage, but he ain't leaving her, you cyan hear?

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