Women
I love using my instrument with you, woman. Love
when it makes its way through your flesh and allows me deep into your warm liquids.
remember being born, I remember the wrinkled face of the midwife, I remember the sounds of my mother to go into exile from his body. I remember the breasts flavored wood that fed me. I love your breasts
woman, see how the sweat of your neck goes through the nipples that harden to her touch. I love your moaning.
Mom worked in the kiosk. Stop all day, serving the men who came, gave him some money and asked him to feed them. Mom got into the house and left me sitting on the lap of the Rose. Your legs
woman, move under my body, I reject and pull me, trying to escape. I love the game of your body.
Mom said not to cry, she had to work that otherwise would not get anywhere. But we never moved. Your body
woman lying motionless on the grass. A tired breath out of your chest after wet dreams, and violent. You close your eyes, you want to sleep and I do not want. I want to keep talking.
Mom never spoke to me. Hardly remember his voice or his words. Mom screamed. All the while screaming. Even before his death did not stop me patojo ungrateful, andate, leave me alone. Vos
your weak beat, it seems that you want the same thing. Like she want me away, I go. Women. Women had to be.
bastard told me. Son of a bitch again and again. I had to stick to you to be quiet, just like her. Putting his hand over his mouth, so I do not remember it more. Son of a bitch.
Mom told me the day I killed her, just for you, that neither the son of a bitch deserved to be called.
I'll tell you other things mom, wife, and maybe a little understanding and come to love.
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