Do you remember the first or the second? The twenty fifth? The ones who kissed you softly, the ones that beat you bloody? The ones who plied you with words or the ones who plied you with drugs or drink? Do you remember their faces or just their cocks? The setting, the smells, or just how you felt in that moment. Did any of them ever love you, did they even want you, or did they just need a hole to cum?

Did they notice your weak little whimpers, did they realize how quickly you got wet? Do they remember your face, your body? Or just the hole that drenched their cock in need? Do they remember the silky smoothness of your skin, the hairless body? Or were they just as wild, drunk, or drugged, forgetting you even existed.

The questions drive you crazy, morning and night. Did they break you, ruin you, make you like this? Or were you always thus, pretending to be pure, while so desperately needy. Did you always need to grind against something, making your thighs touch, was that need something you had forgotten? Had men looked at you before, in the store, smelling your fingers after you touched there through the yoga pants, watching?

You don’t know anymore. What is truth, what is fiction? They blend almost uncontrollably in your mind, a diet of misogyny, abuse, and pain. The greatest food you ever tasted even as more of you slips away. Especially your ability to question. Harder and harder to remember, to think if that action is ok. If you should stop and hesitate. You can’t anymore. Compulsive, so lost in a need that you no longer remember when it began. How it started. The only question left is how will it end?

And to that question, you know no answer. And perhaps, worse, you no longer care.