Monica Murphy

“You have dick sucking lips,” he tells me, and I almost bloom under the compliment

If I pretend I don’t exist, then I don’t.

The girl is an expert dick sucker. Does that sound awful? Yes. Do I still consider her a whore? Confirmed.

But now she’s my whore, and I don’t share.

Still he does nothing. Just watches me with that same expression on his face. The beautiful, cold statue in the garden. Cold. Unmoving.

It’s a façade though. His eyes give him away.

He sometimes becomes poetic when he speaks of hurting me

I treat her terribly.

Sounds like everyone else does too.

I should’ve never worn this stupid costume. I was asking for trouble from the moment I appeared at the party like this

Sometimes I would think you weren’t real. You couldn’t be that perfect

I have no idea what it’s like, to be in a normal relationship. Something long-term and full of love. I’m young, almost twenty, I still have plenty of time.

But I long for that. For a man to look at me with hunger in his gaze. To reach for me as if he can’t help himself. I want to be adored. Ravished. Loved. I want it to be big and wonderful and messy and overwhelming.

I call her a whore and she takes it as a compliment.

But she’s my whore. No one else’s.