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Message-ID: <29717asstr$986501404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Drmwvr5678@aol.com
Content-Disposition:  Inline
Subject: {ASSM} Parental Discretion Is Advised(dark, MF)
Date: Thu,  5 Apr 2001 16:10:04 -0400
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Parental Discretion Is Advised
(c)Belladonna 2001


He said, "I love you."  But it wasn't to me.  A word said too often loses its 
shape and crumbles in time.  

My hips are full, rounded with the lives I have borne.  The morning talk show 
hints at hiding my life-giving body.   

He fucked her.  Not me.  Her.  I wonder, did he open her legs wide and kneel 
over her, smiling down, a little wicked and sexy, while rubbing his thick 
penis against her exposed sex?  Was she wet and musky, tight and sweet?  Tell 
me, I need the torture.  

The class clown has lost her laughter and doesn't know where to find it.  
Leave it alone and it'll come home, dragging her smile behind it.

"Red is your color," he said.  I wore red tonight, but not for him.  

I sit alone, surrounded by people.  I serve and help, wipe and scrub.  I love 
each and every minute of my life.  I hum with the melody of my music.  I've 
grown older and softer.  Maybe wiser.  Yes, definitely wiser.  I cradle my 
past, present and future, marveling at the miracles. 

And then the bough breaks.  Down came lady, cradle and all.  Knowledge is 
power, I preach, sensing my helplessness.  I clamber for the edge of the 
pool, knowing the dread of being sucked under. 

He spends his time working, kissing and sharing.  A late night, a romantic 
lunch.  A grope in his car.  She says "I'm sorry for your wife," as she wraps 
her greedy lips over his cock and sucks my trust away.

It slips, my trust, and falls to the ground.  Can all the King's horses ever 
put it together again?    

I wore red tonight.  Not warm-hot red with a splash of russet creamed into 
the mixture, blending to a perfect festive red.  No.  I wore cold 
blue-burgundy red, thick merlot stained lips.  An unforgiving ooze of maroon, 
copious crimson like the blood that has been leeched from my heart.  
Cherry-peach lips, ripe for a kiss, died away into these fleshy anemic folds 
of a non-smile.  Unforgiving says the color.  Dark says the mood.  Vamp says 
the dress.  

So, I hide beneath the lifeless red and wait.  The class clown huddles in the 
dark corner, wrapping her memories around her, and weeps.  

The spider creeps out the door.

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