Better

I love him. I love him in many ways.
In many, many ways,
Just and unlike the way I've loved before.
He has lips, and eyes, and skin, and dick,
Just like I've loved before.
And yet, I'm expected to say it different.

And different, it is. And he hates it.

He knows that, despite the nights,
My body riddled with his fingerprints,
His body dusted with mine, my scent,
Despite how loud I called his name,
The name before it was louder.

And he hates knowing it.

Before this passion was set arson to,
I told him about the one before it.
The boy I loved before him.
He knew all of the details.

I told him what I hated.
How dry the love ran. How agitated.
The fights. The discomfort.
I told him that I hated it.

But then, suddenly,
When he would fuck me,
I would be in love.

The hot. The heat.
The sweat. The skin.
The touch. The wet.
I'd bite my lip and he'd bite my lip
And he'd make me a woman.
Each night.
And how I only loved him
When the only clothes involved
Were the sheets we dampened.

And now, he's gone,
And now, I have love.
Real love. Nothing artificial.

But he tries to fuck me,
The way the one before him would.

And the look in his eyes tells me that
The look in my eyes is not as good as
The look in my eyes when I would say
Just how good it felt with boy A.

So he tries, harder, faster. Better.
He strives for louder, hotter. Wetter.
But I guess he can see it.
Hear it.
He knows it's not the same.

And I know it's not the same.