Poems

I Liked His Dick

I keep thinking

about our love making

and how it was almost

exactly

everything I wanted,

except for the part where

he wanted me

intolerably,

unbearably, madly.

I don’t think he ever really wanted me

as badly

as I want to be wanted,

and if he did

he sure never fucking let on.

And I keep thinking how

I didn’t mean to want him

this much.

And now

I’m riding away,

and I feel so much longing,

desire, sadness,

and ache

I wish he’d wanted me more,

and not just my body,

but me.

I wish he’d known

that I wanted a little more

of him,

but maybe he did know

and maybe

that’s why he doesn’t want me.

And we both said not to fall in love.

We both said we were the worst.

And it only happens

that two people like us

say the wrong things

but mean the opposite

and then fall in love

in the movies.

That never happens in real life,

and suddenly I am so sad.

I didn’t care before.

I don’t know,

I think for some reason

I thought before that surely

I had no feelings for him.

But I also think

I was pushing them down.

And I mean he did hurt my feelings

more than once,

and my pride,

and he just made me question

so much,

still

I can feel him,

the weight of his body on top of mine,

the warmth of his breath,

his hot blooded skin on my skin,

the absolute pleasure

and baited release,

of his soft and steady touch,

his fingers sliding through me,

the fucking lust

in his bedroom eyes,

all over his face,

in his mouth,

whispering teases

against my face,

the tip of his tongue

gliding along my own,

the inside of his upper lip,

the way he entered my box

like it was his home,

welcomed himself

to pound the sound out of me

then stop and go

slowly, before

just fucking smashing at my cervix

like a battering ram,

how energized he seemed to get,

from making me whimper,

how he’d push back

and hold down my thighs,

his fingers pinching and twisting my flesh,

his hand over my mouth,

how he made it hurt so good,

and wouldn’t let up.

And it’s like fuuuuuuck,

am I ever gonna feel that again?

Someone else is going to get to him

and get all that charm,

and that wild twinkle in his eye,

and that stupid dimple on one side,

of his multidimensional face,

and all that amazing cock and cum.

And I’m so fucking bothered.

I don’t know if this is pride or what?

Because it can’t be grief, or loss,

or love or anything else.

Surely, if we wanted to

we could both see one another again.

But I truly don’t believe he wants that

And I just can’t go chasing after a man.

I just can’t bring myself

to do that

ever again.

No matter how much

I liked his dick.

Hati-Hati translates to “Be Careful” or “Caution” in Indonesian.

HATI-HATI by Ruth Nineke is a collection of poems, dreams, photography, and personal essays reflecting on the author’s love addiction, romanticism and sexuality.

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