Trapped

The room still smells of the perfume phial that you broke.
The stench of cigarettes still haunt the blanket.
As I sit in one corner,
They remind me of you.

I want to escape.
But I am a masochist.

You are like a hangover,
That keeps me running back to the bar,
Where you drink,
And I dance.

I confront your indecent eyes,
Indulged in booze,
As you watch me move:
My exposed skin.

You are my phenomenon,
An exotic mission.
My passion.
Passion, was only a word.
Now, it is a body.
Living and breathing, In my veins.

(Visited 49 times, 2 visits today)

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *