Mosquitos are the Opposite of Romance

Sweetheart, there is no
poetic way of telling
you that I want to
fuck you until
you scream my
name.



There's no melodic
way. I can't write a haiku
about sex with you.



Nor could I poetically
compare fucking thee
to a summer's day.

Potentially, I could say
that making love with you
is hot as June and
as relentless as
mosquitos.

Except mosquitos are
probably the opposite
of romance.

I could just write of
your body and of its warmth.
But that doesn't exactly get
to the point of just how
DESPERATELY I want you.

You, darling, are the
only body I need.
Your flesh is
taunting me with
its beauty. I want
to tear off your
clothes and tie you to the bed and fuck you like a wild animal in heat. Now, isn't that poetry?

I don't know if that was
quite corny enough. Or
angsty enough. I mean,
a teenage girl writing
poetry needs to sound a little
on the sour side.

I want to fuck you then hold you
and cry for hours afterwards
about how my mother never listens
to me and how nobody gets me
except you D':

Was that angsty enough?
Was that teenager enough?
Was that desperate enough?

Certainly not.

This poem was doomed since the
very moment I sat down to write
it. I'm trying to be romantic.
Not trying to sound like a
sad, horny teenager (though that
description suits me perfectly).

Though, I do suppose that while
in a relationship I should try
and be myself.

So, I'll write poetry about
wanting to have angsty, teenage
sex with you.

I'm certainly doing a good
job at it, so far.