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It started as a thin discoloured line a blemish in the beautiful flawless paint. I asked you to fix it. You didn’t.
The colour spread – a bit more each week. Hard to notice at first but it was persistent. I asked you to fix it. You didn’t.
The warm weather came and finally you sanded down the stain you painted over the blemish. It didn’t take, and before long the stain returned. I asked you to fix it. You didn’t.
Finally one day you primed the spot and my heart sang. Believing it could be beautiful again. But then it sat sad and neglected exposed to salt and harsh elements.
Where once there was a stain there is now an ugly hole…
It started with neglect an unpaid bill an unfinished chore a forgotten promise. I asked you to fix it. You didn’t
I stuck my head in the sand for a while and the problem grew. A website women prettier than me. I asked you to fix it. You didn’t.
You agreed to talk and I was cautiously hopeful. I asked you to fix it. You said we would try. You didn’t.
You left me one day scared and alone perhaps a misunderstanding.
And then one day the unthinkable another in my bed while you filled my head with lies. You asked me to fix it. I didn’t.
You were the salt that spread the stain and wore a hole in me. You asked me to fix it I couldn’t.
I can’t tell you the moment I was attracted to you. Or why it happened when I knew it was wrong.
I can’t pinpoint when it was, but I can tell you it struck like lightening. We clicked in a way I hadn’t expected.
It swept over me like wild fire. Was it the same for you? I often wonder…
You called me babe and convinced me I was sexy. I was worthy after he’d brought me low.
Then things shifted… and then it died.
What had begun innocently enough was now an addition. An intimate cry for attention.
A text, a complementary, a smile. It didn’t mean anything, and yet it meant everything.
The thrill, heart pounding sending blood pounding causing skin to flush.
He’s a temptation his kiss like a rush of cocaine through her body, and like a junkie she craves his touch.
His mouth on her lip. His hands on her skin. She is empty without him. He is an itch she can’t scratch.
He burrows into her and she wallows in him. He is the one thing she can’t cut out of her no matter how hard she tries.
He is poison, a deep stain spreading across her skin yet she still swallows him down she loves the taste of sin.
It starts as many things do, a compliment. Just a kind word that makes you glow a little brighter.
It’s innocent but it doesn’t stay that way. Late nights become later and text become naughtier and before you know it just the thought of a message from you steals my breath.
We go for it. I can’t remember who’s idea it is but as my back hits the cool sheets I’m all in.
I have no regrets about that day I know why I did what I did, but I have so many other regrets. The radio silence you’ve enforced. The one word responses as if I were a stranger.
I wish I could rewind time and go back to a coy flirtation, I wish you would see me as I believe you once did instead of something you’d prefer to scrape from your shoe.
I want to tell you it was only a bit of fun and not to be too serious, but I can’t because that would break the code of silence but it was only a bit of fun, Sir.
You stole my heart with your adorable face and sweet disposition. You’ve barely been gone 24 hours but the hole you left in my heart is jagged, its edges too harsh to the touch. Though I know we saved you great suffering it doesn’t make your being gone any easier.
Dress a certain way. Talk a certain way. Behave a certain way and you’re deemed a good girl or a good time girl.
A lady in the street but a freak in the bed? However the old concept that good girls don’t is played out and tired. In 2019 why shouldn’t a woman be able to have her cake and eat it too?
Women are expected to fit into boxes though, we wear labels and if you’re unlucky enough to be branded with the dreaded scarlet letter it’s often something that sticks with you no matter what you do to shake it.
The reverse is also true. Don’t like sex? Or at least don’t advertise that you like sex? Then you’re frigid. Like sex too much and you’re a prude. Is it any wonder that a lot of women spend their lives unfulfilled and unsatisfied? They are too busy trying to be all things. Wife, Mother, Business Woman, Sex kitten.
Is it better to own your sexuality? To know your body and say this is what turns me on? In the age of #metoo and amid the abortion debates and what feels like an endless attack on women’s rights I would argue that it is better.
I would argue that it’s vital that all women know their worth don’t settle for less and be proud to live in your truth.