I lust you,

I lust for you,

Your tasty lips,

Your eyes when you’re turned on,

Your breath on my neck

Your touch on my skin,

Your voice when you whisper “I want you…”


Your soft skin, melting in my hands

Embraced in the lustful fires

of our sensual desires.

Your moans, escaping your mouth,

caressing my ears

as our bodies rock to the rhythm

of lust.





If you love me buy me roses. It read. You read that text again and smirk. Manipulative little bitch. You take a final puff of the blunt and kill it. After some thought you go to buy the roses anyway because if you don’t you might as well not come home. And the roses come with complimentary gifts. Jewellery, lingerie maybe, you know, anything advertised in the media that because your girl likes it you should buy it for her this valentine’s. Like they give a shit. Just throwing a brother under the bus without batting an eyelid. After today they’re just going to prey on the next big occasion or holiday to cash in on. Greedy bastards. You arrive at the flower shop and it takes all you have to not puke. You hate roses, they smell like shit. These things should be left to grow in the wild. Does the rose know it’s considered the flower of love? Does it know that on a single day each year more roses are plucked and sold than probably all other days of the year combined(subject to research). And after that most people don’t touch a rose till a year later, you included. You start to curse the origins of valentine’s day when she texts to ask about the roses and “anything else”. She’s expecting a gift. “Yeah, buying them just now.” Send. Dammit. So you buy her the gift along with the roses. These millennials though, they’re quite something.

“Why is it that it’s the guys that are compelled show supposed acts of love to their girls?” You ask as you enter house. She sees you and comes running, all excited and shit. You hold back the roses and gift as you repeat the question. Her reply, a long French kiss as she grabs the roses. She remarks how the flowers have a beautiful smell as she walks to the couch completely disregarding anything you said. “Dafuq just happened?” you ask yourself, standing there, dazed, scratching your head. She is already dressed in the traditional red, that’s your cue. You don the outfit laid on the bed for you. Wow, she was actually serious about date night. All this to “celebrate love”, to celebrate a day whose origins you, and herĀ  do not even know. You go to the sitting room and find she has set it up for the night. She liked the gift, and told you to prepare for the night of nights. She said that last year too, so you have an idea what to expect. As if reading your mind, she tells you last valentine’s was just a taste. You can’t wait for dinner to be over. You make this known to her, and she gladly obliges.

But hold your horses. Is it really worth it? It feels like you’re being short-changed… Are you? But you can’t think of that right now, long night ahead.
Talk to you tomorrow then.