I can't call it love, honestly, but there's something there on my end.
I've lost myself in the discombobulation of sex and physicality. I've grown bored of this front. The vaginal walls of "lovers" grow wider with age, stretched with use, and I feel less and less. I'm a loving prostitute, I give you pleasure, but I'm left with the baggage of another checkmark, and a means to get out.
Leave me alone.
I need to know this one before I can touch the ground again. She makes me throw that cursed physical molasses film coating my empathetic heart into the laundry hamper.
I no longer want her as an Omiss. But it could be for the best. It might be the best for love, but my head won't rest until I act . . .
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