Every day I wake up thinking about it.

I touch myself and become

juiced like a grapefruit,

wanting you between my legs. Be it your

warm mouth that is as soft and juicy

as a watermelon, only the pips

betray your bitterness.

Or your cock, ram rod hard with

ardour and passion. A huge pistol

fuelled with venom, a sack full of

selfishness, sexual greed,

completely ignoring my emotional needs.

Sex with the ex. It rhymes

and sounds more romantic and

together than it really should

and of course, much more than it really is.

It is soul destroying, as pummelled

and as flawed as orange peel.

Punctured and redundant like a

burst tyre and equally as useless.

But sometimes we need a blowout.

Sometimes we need to punish ourselves

to ensure that we can still feel.

That we are still alive or is that just me?

He feels so familiar inside me,

like he has finally come home.

Coming being the operative word.

Yet somehow for me, it feels

like an arduous night shift.

Shifting my emotions around,

as I try and concentrate on the feeling.

His climax, our past and how

we can never go back to that.

Sex with the ex.

A poetic violent rhyme.

Where two once loving people,

want to travel back in time.