In the night he comes to me, looking for skin, touch, raw pleasure. Looking for it all. He pours everything that is him, his words, empty promises, all of his being, into me. Leaving me full, spilling over. His hands, taking what he wants. Fingers running over the cracks in me, where the light has grown too dim to sneak through. I am shameless. breaking at his will. He kisses my mouth, silencing the scream raging inside of me. It’s 4am and I’m spent. But we aren’t done until he gets his fill. And when the night is through, he’ll silently drain from me what was previously his, until it is all gone, taking along pieces of me that crumbed the bed through the night, letting the cracks expand, filling his pockets. And each time he needs that fill, he will return, leaving me slowly disappearing into the lust stained sheets, covered in my own wasted ruins. He does this every night, until I am just a collection of skin and bones. And finally, the night will come that he doesn’t show, and I will lie in my empty bed, covered in wonder. Is it that he’s satisfied with what he’s taken, or unsatisfied with what is left of me?