Touch

My body is abandoned.

His touch is selfish.
-"Kiss my neck"

I do as he asks. I always finish. But finishing isn't the important part. An empty orgasm is worse than no orgasm.

The last one would finish as soon as he touched me.

I miss what it was like to have a lover. To truly lose control. To have my mind wiped of any an all thought, to have my body tense and shaking. Where the slightest touch brought even the hair on my body to ecstasy.

My body is abandoned. By them and by me.

I let my breasts fall. I have rolls in places that should be smooth and flat. I probably am carrying around cancer in my lungs from the cigarettes I smoke.

In my daydreams I imagine disconnecting from everyone, and reappearing five years later, as a graceful woman, a demure goddess, the object of admiration, an air of mystery, two words: sophisticated, together.

I don't see a way out of this bed with no sheet, this room with empty food cartons, this face with over-picked scabs.

"What happened to your face?" my sisters asked me, just yesterday. "Are you on your period? I've never seen you so broken out."

"I just got off it," I lied. I got off it a few weeks ago. I've just reopened every scab every day because it's easier to be ugly now than try to be pretty.