Sep 16, 2025
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Blood stains the depth of my fingertips from the scabs I continue to pick. The tension mounting in lieu of the silence that looms across the room. We sin in starvation of pallets whose flavor tastes taboo. With chosen words so carefully, you hurt me, and in return I will hurt you. The tires continue he to rotate even after the wear and tear. The mileage exceeded the limits on the odometer.
Basement dwellers ruminating on past deeds, as the past feeds fades away micro aggressions that can’t be overlooked.
I don’t want to capture moments anymore, I don’t want to be reminded.
I dwell on the things that I should have let go from now. Regret has always been easier for me.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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It’s always so much simpler in retrospect.
We held our breaths and waited for you to take yours first. Counted the seconds until you could be held by us, starved ourselves of the satisfaction as you quenched your thirst. You cried out to the world as you opened your eyes, smacked your lips desperately wanting to be fed. My feet drenched from the tears that flood the floor as I rock you back to sleep from the foot of our bed. You’ll never comprehend just how much I love you.
Here lies another moment of transparency masked under the guise of exposure. Premeditated murder of the closure within. We countdown the days where tranquility is the only notion. We worry that sadness looms every conversation to the point that pain is the only emotion left. Voices get raised, then slowly brought back down in attempt to keep you shielded from discontent. Your little face observing love fighting it’s hardest to carry through.
The golden parachute forgot to deploy, the surface draws closer as we continue speeding below. If the crash were the end of it, I'd rejoice in a state of euphoria, but we all know that is far too good to be true.
January 24th Saturday.
I think the final straw broke because of a rascal flats fight. I scanned the venue to find another face like mine. Asked her if we’d still be together if we didn’t share a child. A sobering reminder of the minutia we extrapolate from what often feels so grotesque. Each silent response screams of a reality we’re both too ashamed to admit has been true. Each subliminal passive response distracts from the honesty we once valued before. The lights torpedo across the room as the music crescendos to its peak. We sit there in silence because we’re too afraid to speak.