you tell me you would never lie to me—
but you do, every night
when you say "I love you"
because you don't love me. You don't love my little quirks like how I snort when I laugh, or when I'm sad my left eye always tears up first or when I sing loudly in the car to songs that you don't like. You don't love how I prefer coffee over tea, or books over movies.
you don't love me.
you love my body.
You love how I feel beneath you—or on top of you, you love how my mouth feels around you. You love how my smooth skin is yours to mark—but not out of love.
You love the pleasure I give you, how I'm covered in you with wild hair, the way I scream your name in what you think is pleasure but it's a cry for help.
you don't love me.
you love my body.
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