When I make love to my dearest, I picture someone else.
He places fat rolls of paper over his main member to measure its width, what a pervert.
His breath reeks of cigarette ash, cherry flavored; it causes bile to pulsate through the narrow piano cords of my throat.
I sprint to the bathroom and gag in the sink as I’d never allow my fingers to clutch the sides of the shit bowl.
He smiles, thinking one of his white tadpoles made it into the oven, a sense of accomplishment. I’d never have children, I despise them.
I detest their crying; their tooth-less mouths clutching mum’s teats and every adult’s pity for them. I enjoy smacking their buttocks any chance I get when mama turns her head.
One day I hope he dies with that same smile plastered across his face and his main member protruding from his trousers like the thick root of some sycamore tree.
Mama will know what a naughty boy he has been.