Ingenue

i feel oddly real today. thank you blue skies and 500 days of summer.

I could totally use a boyfriend right now

By cultivating my finishing education you have laid siege to me and claimed me, a product of your own seed.

I write for you, so you will take notice of me, and be throughly pleased with me. With my intellect cultivated under your disdain for my past self. Catch sight of me please. Read my lips I’m begging you. Tell me I’ve done well. That I am pleasing. That I can rest in blessed assurance of my being finished.

My dearest Mr. Bennington, is it quite awful of me to desire to be an amphibian in the truest sense? To be your poius image perfected little wife and insatiable harlot. To attend church with you every Sunday and prepare dinner for your corpulent children then to promenade our perfection in the lackluster face of polite society. At night awaiting you patiently in my boudoir to enact my confession session and the consequential punishment, the Lord’s mouth to your commanding hand. To be your house trained puppy and also your bratty untamed kitten. To wait patiently under your desk but tantalize you also by the brushing of my velveteen cheek against the inside of your pant’s leg.

Let me be your linen spread me across your bed or even your knee. Smooth out my rebellious creases. By your hand beat me, a canvas, into your greatest masterpiece. I will wait for you on your desk day after day, an ostrich feather quil stationary but contradicting in my motion underneath your inhalations, waiting to be gripped by you, to be used by you. I will burn my fingers baking your favorite confectionery delights and feeding them to you by plump and dimpled hands, my dearest Emperor Bennington. With my charred digits I will stir your brandy, calling out to God in thanksgiving for you, you blessed son of Judah.