internet_porn werewolf Her name can be Elizabeth or Jasmine like the woman who inspects your clothes before they are shipped, or else Nikki or something that their father would never call them. And everyday they are secretly there, a smooth stone in a pocket, that waits until the end of the day, that waits for you. The men go to them like children crossing the schoolyard at the end of each day to return ot the mother whose leg they never wanted to leave anyways. And she'll give the familar thoughtless motions, offer up the unconditionals, whisper and moan and coo and smooth hair away and say, you're good enough, you deserve it all, but you're helpless. and for a moment, they don't have to be on their own, and that's worth the ambivalence of being so exposed, so naked and breathing and shameless. they watch and are allowed to be the agressive propoganda soldier or the father or the child sneaking out late at night. they watch young soft bodies go limp or flex or anything so long as their eyes are reflecting hunger 100% and hold nothing more until full and then empty again. And it can never end, because there are always new faces to bully and stain or else old ones, to give to the begrudging respect of boredom. And before the garbage trucks come, for a brief three or six or seven seconds tired eyes will roll like cookie monster's eating cookies he can't swallow. there will be the smell of chlorine, of fresh cut grass, a hand gripping like an infant at the source of the pleasure, the discomfort. a lonliness, the leftover brightness of a monitor when it should be dark. the rising sun feels thick and caky. another failed attempt at salvation. 031215 ... doar . 040810 what's it to you? who go blather from