comely

your mutter of something sounding like "I call it making love" whispered into my ear sounded so distant that the words were lost the second you breathed their life. This was not love making. this was a simple fuck in the back-seat of a car - just as every dirty rug-burned fuck we'd had before. My heart was on a completely different side of town every time you stabbed me with your latex knife. (just for the record: my heart was never involved, so you can leave love out of this) and leave my fucking heart out of this, it never did shit to you.

Just so you know - every time you called it "love-making", I called it "orgasm faking".

I don't love you, and I never have.