Have you ever wondered how the truth of intimacy isn't half as intimate as the idea of it
In the shallow breaths of a gasping anticipation to the screenplay of a fornication, you've played over and over again in the boner of your brain cells
In the folds of an inexpensive adulthood rented out to the suicidal moth of an innocence, spent at the length of faded words in a worn out erotica
In the flimsy skin wrapped around the throbbing veins of your measured thickness molly-coddled to a perverted sickness disguised as desire
Have you ever wondered how orgasms are a commodity
How the stretch marks laid out across the breadths of your skin like stitches on the only blanket of a homeless, aren't aligned to the aesthetics of desire
How your ideas of sexual gratification revolve around objectifying fiction born off Photoshop & cocaine that is as distant from human anatomy as Communism as a practice is, from Communism as an ideology
How you constantly dwell at the crossroads of the duality of fucking the ones you wouldn't jerk off to and jerking off to the ones who wouldn't fuck you
The next time you think or feel, even for a fraction of a second, sex isn't political
Peel off your clothes like masks off a creature of convenience, and dare make love to the other side
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