Hungry for love

Passionately, he whispers 'You have a beautiful body'

His opinion of my physical appearance is ironic

The brittle and damaged body he caresses is a result of self-induced starvation.
It is unmistakably underweight and unfamiliar of such intimate attention.

'You're addictive' he continues.

I consider myself poison but fail to warn him.

He gently strokes my concave stomach expressing no alarm at its lack of substance.
His hands move to my hips where my bones protrude unnaturally, their sharpness failing to deter him.

His touch overwhelms me
His praise comforts me

I'm relieved he knows northing of the pain and torment I've endured to reach this point of apparent attraction.

I'm pleased he doesn't see the matching scars on my wrists. A consequence of a night spent alone with my emotions and far too many hot matches

He is a man of success, exuding self-assurance.
I am a woman accustomed to failure and lacking in self-worth.
Outside our explicit entanglement, I fail to feature in his thoughts

He devours my body as though I'm lavish cuisine.
Nourishment to his strung out soul.

Hungry too is my empty, sustenance searching soul I yearn for intimacy. Retribution for my failed marriage I crave the naughtiness of our sex. Replacement for the loss

He smiles with content as he enters the place in my body that has been long neglected.
Beads of his sweat descend to my face

I wish for his eyes to gaze into mine
They remain closed and exclusive.

Instead of succumbing to a level of pleasure he is clearly close to, I instead instinctively think, prohibiting my own potential passion.

As a rhythmic rush of orgasm washes through his body A surge of familiar anguish gushes through mine.

We lay in post sex silence and I foolishly mistake his embrace as a display of affection.

'You're so yummy' he says.

Apparently our explosive sexual encounter was a gastronomic experience!

I sense demise and I depart, feeling for a moment I am in control.
I am not.

At home, I slide into self-destruction
Nausea sits uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach.
I resist the urge to vomit

I am cold and unstable.
I reek of sex.

The scent of his masculinity and confidence remains on my skin I choose not to shower.
Instead I relish the aroma seeping from my pores and the moistness lingering between my legs.

I extract pleasure from the notion that I was wanted, needed and perhaps, enjoyed.

I search for self-preservation but find only the sick stench of shame.

I search for love
I find further loss

My self destruction accelerates and I lose myself in fear I pour a large glass of red wine at an hour when I shouldn't.

I try to justify it
I can't so I drink it anyway.

At this point I welcome self-destruction with open arms.

Anorexia wraps herself around me
At least she loves me

Genine