Within the juxtaposition of lust and nothingness
we exist.
What am I to you, really?
Not good enough to be your woman,
but we’re certainly more than friends.
If I’m just a connoisseur of pleasure,
then you’re my architect of pain.
I desire and despise every inch of you.
Thoughts of us haunt me continuously.
Your presence awakens me immediately.
I curse the condition you’ve left my heart in.
Moreover, I hate what I’ve become.
A weakened, amoral version of my former self,
lost in lust and longing for an answer to
an enigmatic question.
What am I to you, really?
