Here I am on his bed once again.
His dirty little secret is what I am.
He doesn’t love me, he never will, for I am not relationship material.
He loves another and this I know, yet I have no one to call my own.
So here I am on his bed once again, as he talks dirty to me and rips off my dress.
He takes my panties off with his teeth, and for a moment I feel pleased.
Until I think of her and I, and how I can’t compare to her and what she’s got.
Here I am on his bed once again, the other woman, the one who feeds him his piece of cake.
The one she cries about, and hates so much, the one that doesn’t let him arrive on time.
I sometimes wish I could explain myself, tell her he’s the one I love, but I don’t dare.
For what I feel doesn’t matter here, I am just his little whore and she’s the one he can’t let go.
Here I am on his bed once again, degrading myself because I have no one to call my own.
I wrote this, only because I can only imagine how mistresses feel and why they must continue on with that role.
Is it love?
I’d wish I could understand what makes women betray other women in this way?