You have a type, he says
That only you can define
because it's yours.
Pleading against his indifference
I try to convince him that, No!
I don't
That I crave HIM
yet he insists
you have a type.
And this type, he identifies
which he embodies in the way he thinks
talks, fucks, breathes, walks, fucks...
happens to be the 'type' that I crave
when he fucks me like the ghetto
dirty and cruel
fast and hard
leaving me breathless
powerless
asking for more of the crack that he injects into my veins.
This type
that makes me plead with tear-filled eyes
angry sighs
waiting on his call, his voice, his words
this indifference after we fuck
after he pulls the rug from under my feet
shatters me like glass
into a million pieces
shards so sharp they cut pain into my spirit
carve despair into my core.
His type, that I know, yet I don't
because we've spent hours not talking
just me giving
and him taking
Just him
fucking me like his ghetto
dirty
cruel
hard
fast
leaving me breathless
powerless
craving his brand of crack
turning my eyes from his indifference
trying to pull myself away
from this type
my type
his type
