fuck me (break you)

a spoken word poem; to be read out loud, passionately after masturbation or a hate-fuck (first
half: normal volume; second half: at a shout)

i’m high again and shopping online
for lingerie that’ll make you cum with its vanity alone. it’s hot—
melt-your-areolas-off hot—in my midtown old-as-shit apartment.
my junk’s still piled up in the corner from the move. all i’ve unpacked
is a crusty, fifth-hand tome of shakespearean sonnets, the pipe i used
with the cheap weed you brought over as a housewarming gift, and the
laptop I’m using to self-ablute/prep for you. does this ritual make you happy?
like when you were a boy and your dick hadn’t grown in yet, so you had to be nice
to women and not call them i-don’t-know-what-you-are-to-mes?
i’m thinking of getting the black pair.
and, you know what? i think i want this thong and bralette by cosabella to break you.
i want it to make you so hot you need to pull off on the road’s shoulder and rub one out.
i want your tongue to dance phonemes of my benevolence, praise my body’s syllables in the
ways that require contortion.
oh, you, you. oh, hell.
i might just take my new lingerie out of the package when it arrives—wouldn’t you like that!—
don it like stolen livery, and get your best friend to peel each piece off me with his teeth. how
about
i rouse ol’ billy shakes from the dead and become his bestest little cumslut, too? becum his
darling bud of may? i might make you eat my shit beside the bed while he and your friend
spitroast me for a skeezy porn website. i don’t care if the video gets out! HAH!
or why don’t we boil your testicles until they turn into downy, salty prunes i can roll between my
fingers and then cast into the garbage, so you can finally feel what i feel every time you cheat.
do you see what you do to me? you complete me. you kill me.
i want you to grieve me.
so, answer:
should i get them in lace cut or as solid pieces?