What is this but a wasted temple? Worshipped greatly, now gathering dust under the ruling of a man who loves and respects too much.
Disconnected from desire, from the skin, from fingers and soles, my body lies here, untouched but somehow used.
I remember dearly the times of soft touches, intense flames arising from a gentle meeting of eyes, finger grasping tightly the curves and bones of an altar. Dearly that skin that I won't touch again.
As a classical hysterical, my self-confidence (not worth), derives directly from how much worship my body receives, since I'm thirsty for any sort of touch by now, the emptiness and dismorphia, have grown strong, deep roots. Yet you're happy to meet other bodies, while mine rots in decay on your bed. Disconnected, not-trying-for-not-caring kind of love isn't enough for me.
I need passionate, highly sensitive, intertwining love.
Why would you want to go on dates if you don't care about sex? And if I'm as attractive as you emotionlessly say here and there, why don't you touch me at all anymore?