My co-woker split a bag of cherries with me. Get you mind out of the gutter.
Now put it back in.
I’m nuturing my desires more, really coming to grips with what I want. Maybe soon I’ll be able to say them out loud without the fear of it not being understood or reciprocated.
Possession. It’s a word that sends shivers down my spine, much like my current future ex-husbands (read it again) coming out to the ring, and really, really good ice cream. It’s a thought that circulates in my mind and pants quite a bit, but because I’m supposed to be a independent woman who don’t need no man, I don’t voice this desire out loud, or explain it as well as I probably could, for fear of it not being reciprocated or for people to look at me at give me the usual spiel:
You’re still young, you have your whole life ahead of you, have fun, do this, do that, don’t be like me…
First things first, I’m the realest. Drop this and let the whole world feel it.
Second thing, the wild oats that I have sown so far in my life are the reason why California is experiencing a drought, so just imagine me with a passport and access to my future ex-husbands.
Third, even on my worst day I could never be you.
It still remains though that I have a desire to be possessed. Not controlled. Not abused. Not held back. Possessed. I’m talking about proud to have me around. Grab my ass in public every once in a while. When you come inside the house you want to be inside (read it again). You growl “You’re mine” at me.
You can live without me. I’m not telling you to give up your life for me. But want me. Want me so bad that you throb at the thought of me. Grab me by the arm and pull me in. Suck the air out of me. Like Gerard Butler said in one of my favorite comedies, Dracula 2000:
Everything I have is yours, and all you are is mine.
