I already had a bad picture of family but I've never thought it could be worse. Family is only here to oblige you to stay related to someone you couldn't even know, you couldn't even like. I prefer friends. The choice. And I don't want to get married. I refuse. The freedom. I refuse to be obliged to stay, seeing feelings falling away, my body growing old and my mind boring more and more as you explain us the way we fell in love, no more desire for the one I used to love. I don't want to be in charge of someone else when I'll choose to leave, to change, to live or to die.
Because I can't bear the charming prince and the “they lived happily together for ever and ever and.... BANG”. Because I can't believe to love and couple...
You take part of the ones who “make love” whereas I often fuck. I don't want a child. I don't a mini-me, like a face to see my faults each time I look at her eyes. Like a bad mirror which remembers you each second your mistakes. I don't want a family, like slippers in which you used to huddle up and whose you feel obliged to wear now even if they're full of crap. I don't want a family picture on my fire place. I only need sextoys.
I don't want a loyal and lovely husband but only someone who gives me the illusion to be useful and who makes me feel what I'm not able to obtain alone.
I'm sure you couldn't fuck somebody. You need feelings, to give something to someone who is worth it. You could be a 45years-old princess stuck in her fucking keep, still believing to this asshole with his white warhorse.
I don't know exactly what I want, and what I need, but I couldn't wear your values, they're just too narrow. I refuse to be one of those who turn round with regrets and continue to walk, with heavy steps sinking into the asphalt.
No, I'll not be alone. You know how much I could hate it.
I want to vibrate, to burst, to burn. You're offering me a cutty cushion in red velvet to calm down when I just want to moove. I know we can't run all our life but, from now, I refuse to stop.
I need men with minds as huge as their trousers. Who prefer long hair to virility. Crude who know how use tenderness. Unforeseeable. Imaginative. Fiery. Fire in the hand.
You are so nice that you become boring. Still the same tons, the same expressions, the same smile, the same face. Platonic. If I stayed here with you, one morning, even before you fell anxious or worried, I could be out, putting thumb up, waiting for someone faster than you. I know I could love you so much, but, I'm sorry, I don't know how long for.
I'm not one you could keep here, like a precious jewel, closed in a trunk you ate the key. I'm a flower which fade without oxygen. I could stay if you promise me to let me go. Paradoxical? As you want.
Take the best of me in the time allotted to you or decide not to taste my flesh if you don't accept the terms.
He slamed the door.
She was crying now. After anger, despair. After devastating hurricane, bitter silence. She realized that she will be and probably finish her life alone. She was only angry to convince him of her darkness, to leave her. But, she had mainly done it to him.
She knew she could be happy for a time. She knew he could be happy. But, still the same problem. How fucking long for ? She was like these womanizers who try to believe each time that they'll love them, that they are the wife of their life. But, each time, one morning, they wake up with this bitter taste in mouth. The taste of boredom.
She was nacked, looking at herself in the mirror, trying to convince herself that she could be this beautiful housewife, decently dressed, with cleaned house, sweety child.
Desperate, she slipped into her dress night and slided slowly in her bed. She loved the smell of fresh washed sheets. She hates sleeping alone. She bent down to look under the bed. This night, she'll sleep with him. Sweety Pooky, the one she's sure to always love, the one she know she can't hurt. Lovely Pooky. Faithful Pooky. Unhuman Pooky...