Postcard From A Trophy Fuck

The ghost of relations past haunts me.

Our one night stand left a lifetime imprint.

I’ve scrubbed where your lips and hips

met my eager frame,

But the grime of our lust had already soaked through.

I’m tainted.

I was your trophy fuck.

Earned through a sweat filled night

of tackles and throws,

now exiled to the archives of fucks gone by.

Is the memory of that night still vivid?

Can you still hear my voice in your ear?

Remember how you trembled at the height of our passion?

How a cold sweat condensed on our skin

and how we clung to each other for warmth?

Or has it been thrown into a montage of orgasms and genitals?

Trivialized like a morning’s constitutional?

Discarded like an empty condom wrapper?

Replaced like a soiled feminine lining?

I’m angry.

I was just one of your frivolous fucks.

Simply placed in your collection of porcelain pussies,

assigned a number, left to collect dust

and watch you acquire the others.