The Empty Promise

The fish drinks. The bird sings. I fuck. I've beein doing it for a while now and each time I do it, I get better. An elegant monster feeding off the libido of the world. At a point I got so good that I began nurturing the delusion that I am natures gift to women. But in truth, I only get better because each time, I take less and less joy in it. It has become a wild idea of sport. A way to compliment a woman when I reach the limit of my words. To impress her. To obtain a vague sense of validation. I have become something strange and hollow. Most of the time, I'm not even there. Ever since I reached sexual maturity I only met one girl that made this body shake and crumble into an abyss of pleasant forgetfulness. 
And it used to be such a wonderful thing. The divine melody of moans. The slow curling of toes. All that violent poetry of pleasure. An addiction worth having. But our empty bodies are always looking for the ultimate high somehow. And in my refusal to deprive myself of anything, I became depraved. Ordinary. Simple. Mechanical. Stuck in a cell with the door wide open. Slave to habit. I need to be changed. Into something else. This is how the dead live.