I always find myself rolling someone out of my bed. This is getting boring. Repetitive. Even as I lay here alone, I still hear their panting, shallow breaths caught in their throats as they attempt to take another. Each closer and closer until I can no longer take it and I scream myself.
I’m tired of sharing my bed. I don’t know how to tell them. Instead, I invite them over to chill, hang out, shoot the shit. I continue to end up here. Naked. Wondering why this always happens. Why do I still feel their bodies against mine. Intimate positions from not so intimate people. Never looking me in my face as they take another part of me.
I count their thrusts. Cum quickly before I grow tired. I pray that I’m good enough to bring them to their knees. He pauses. Cum quickly before I change my mind. He thrusts again. I hope I’m tight enough for them to wither under me. Holding himself in me, he steadies his body. Cum quickly before I realize who you are and why you’re here. He thrusts once more. I’m only worth this bed to you. Cum quickly please.
He pulls out. Laying there, proud of himself as I quietly curl myself into a ball. He doesn’t notice I’ve inched away from him. No longer do I wish to feel his arms around my body. I only wish I could turn back time and tell myself not to allow every man who claims to be my friend into my home.
Yet here I am again, praying he cums quickly. Eyes staring at the ceiling, waiting for him to leave. I don’t kick them out and in turn they build homes within me. Making me a place of comfort. When I’m simply just a place to them.
I called my mom. I told her in not so many words I’m hurting. That each time one comes, I lose a part of myself. Gently she reminded me to value myself. There was no anger in her voice as she looked back at her own history. She spoke with a softness I needed; carefully I pieced myself back together through her words.
Today I climbed out my bed, planted my feet on the rough carpet, and took first steps on the cold, hardwood floor.
I woke up alone.