An amateur poem that doesn't rhyme. Basically about guys who use girls just for sex and keeps it a secret because he's interested in someone else. Obviously I've made a few mistakes. :)
But I'm not perfect, so I don't care.
Glossy Fairytales - By Janet Akai
We've got this hush kind of love
The kind that fairytales neglect to sing about,
Tucked away in Rapunzles tower, with crumbling bricks as witnesses to its tragedy
This is Cupids crime scene.
With his arrow tipped in poison, he forced on me this special love.
So special that midnight hours, clumsy rushed intercourse, inhaled and exhaled lies, lay waste to naïve innocence.
I am cupids crime scene and this is his kind of love.
The kind that calls at 2am in the morning just to say "baby, I'm horny".
The kind that keeps Sleeping Beauty asleep because her nightmares are so much sweeter than this.
Hush... in this Fairytale, she should stay asleep.
She can ever know about this kind of love.
The selfish kind of love.
Because as curvaceous as these hips are,
Full as these breasts are,
Soft as these lips are,
His world lacks these Disney Fairytales, knights in white amour, church bells, and happy endings.
Open a Play Boy Magazine and that is his kind of love, his kind of fairytale.
Only glamour girls, petite girls, skinny girls, no love-handle girls, no flab girls, just ab girls, non-fat no-ass girls, can be loved by him.
These thighs, hips, waists, and breasts are only good for fucking.
For satisfying his caveman urges.
For pleasuring his selfishness.
For - Not for being loved by him.
Unlike Cinderella, his glass-slippers will never fit these feet.
Unlike Snow White, I'll never be the fairest of them all.
Unlike him, I demand to know what this is.
What is this?
Friends with benefits?
Bed buddies, fool around buddies, suck buddies, fuck buddies, emotionally screwing me up buddies, mentally scaring me buddies, physically degrading me buddies?
What is this!
Aladdins genie didn't grant me his three wishes: skinny, big breasted, and horny.
So he, treats me like a bed - good enough to sleep in, not enough to stay in.
Like a prostitute - good enough to fuck with, not good enough to be with.
Like nothing - good enough - no, not good enough at all.
Because he is selfish, ignorant, arrogant.
A testosterone, adrenalin fueled, bring-home-the-bacon, fuck around typical male!
But Cupid was so gentle - sweetly leading me to love this.
Softly tapping on my door, charming me with plastic roses, beckoning my hair out those windows, creeping into my tower, and sweetly stabbing me below my left breast.
But shh... it's his secret.
I'm his secret.
His thing on the side when he gets bored of that girl!
His light snack before a romantic dinner with that girl!
His closet whore because I'm not that girl!
His... shh... no one must ever know about this girl.
So I'm closing this window, Cupid fuck off with your arrow.
Take your plastic roses, collagen pumped lips and silicone filled breasts.
You were so busy with wanting that girl that you didn't see this girl.
I'm this girl!
This tired of being his secret girl,
This not a whore, emotionally drained girl.
This never ever going to be your girl.
This officially-done-with-you, boy.
So turn your own magazine pages.
Your Playboy fairytales have ended.
And I'm finally taking my Disney ending without your glossy fairytales.