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You used to say:

“You are one in a million!”


That you can wank off at the mere thought of me,

That you get hard when someone mentions my name,


To chain me, to punish me, to teach me,

To take me through a beautiful hell.

I found it all so romantic and wonderful.

No irony.

You treated me like a man should:

A lady at all times but a whore in the bedroom.

And I have never even cooked for you.

Today you left,

Left me with a non-making-sense:

“I won’t miss you at all”.

You didn’t say it – radio did,

But you agreed, nodded.

Tomorrow you returned.

Couldn’t fight it, called it “addiction”,

Believed that “we only live once”.

I couldn’t stop you – you liberated me –

How could I go back into the cage

Of stereotypes, and imposed rules,

Abusive stability that kills our freedom,

You made me happy when I thought nothing could.

Not only physical but also a friendship of spirits.

Pulled me out of my fall, and I was grateful.

But today and tomorrow – especially tomorrow –

I knew you hated me.

Despised me for being here for you,

For being available,

For not stopping you from yourself,

Your lover, your mistress, your mistake.

You returned, but sex lost its colouring,

Lost its chains, charms, and its power,

Lost itself, lost us, has become pointless,

Asexual, tired, fake, foreign, alien, not ours,

Or in other words

Just a habit that we developed,

Like the habit you have with her.

When it was passion it wasn’t a sin,

Now it is.