Have you ever cried so hard underneath your covers at night after you’ve made love to your lover and he sleeps soundly besides you,
his hand across your chest, trying to hold you in but slowly slipping away.
You hold your breath in,
try to choke up the tears. Your face
is covered
because you are afraid that he might see you weeping and startle himself in his half asleep state.
try to choke up the tears. Your face
is covered
because you are afraid that he might see you weeping and startle himself in his half asleep state.
It’s hot. It is so
hot under the oven of blankets. It is suffocating
you, your tears wetting your face like butter over flour, sticky, so sticky.
It is as if you are glued for life.
hot under the oven of blankets. It is suffocating
you, your tears wetting your face like butter over flour, sticky, so sticky.
It is as if you are glued for life.
Yet you try to stifle that sniffle, whimpering, whispering, wondering, wailing your soul out, bawling your eyes out.
Why. Why, you ask.
You ask yourself instead of the man next to you.
He flays his arms with you one fine evening, dines his desires with another, the next evening.
Stop !
Do not explain more. You shall burn yourself underneath the covers, bite your hands from crying out, swallow that lump in your throat, that pain in your chest, that hurt in your heart. Feel guilty, feel lacking, feel insecure.
Only because you think of him first, and he thinks of none.
TheHyperteen 