nine years

I miss being your muse, and you being mine.

It is getting to the point where every little thing I do has taken on a sort of eroticness, because in my mind it's all for you. The photos I take, the contrast of my pale pink against a crisp white wife beater, the lessons in submission. There is an inescapable desire to please you, which I'd be content to let swallow me if I only knew what to do with the tension and energy it created. I sleep with the windows open, the curtains open, my legs open.

I'm too lazy to explain who I am now, but know that I am lost in my worship of the moon.

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