Evening Primrose

There are so many different smells

The aftertaste

Of choloate

On breath

I’m lost for the first time

In a city that seems to

Threaten me

With memories

Am I back on the sheets

Hardly washed

Covered with my own blood

And cum

A record spinning that

In one life I might’ve loved

But maybe not

The quality of light

Too warm

Not bright

The way he smelled with milk

on his

breath

I am too much

And not enough

I become part of the furniture

A dispensory

Of my own love

As his lube

I’m too

Submissive

Little

Wet

I’m not

Confident

Important

Satisfied