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Your Five-Minute Girl

All words, all scars

I’m just a few clicks away. Your sober mind doesn’t know me but I am the first one you think of whenever you are drunk, bored, or hurt. I am your forever available fixer.

I have delicious boobs and a hot ass. I’m witty and smart, beautiful and silly. I am your fantasy. I can accept you, I seem to always understand where you’re coming from. You feel cosy talking to me, but never comfortable enough to listen to me.

I have courage, I lack ambition, I’m a plant with no brain. I’m slutty, charismatic and boring. I have curves, a sexy accent and a weird sense of humour. I’m a contradiction too far away to figure out, or to bother calling outside of your lost times.

I’m unattractive, my hair smells great and my skin is too white. I can cook and I can suck a cock clean. I’m full of life, a lot of fun and very adventurous. You can always trust me to give you the best advice or to spice up a conversation. But I’m never sure if you are going to reply in five minutes or in five months. Or maybe over one year.

I’m daddy’s girl, a hooker with a nasty body. I ask for it, I deserve the best and send inviting vibes. I’m an inspiration, a loser and a crazy bitch with an innocent smile. You rarely make time, but you always promise to come back. Your thirst is never fully satisfied. You like me, but.

I’m everything you see in me: all words, all scars. They used to hurt me, to fool me, to make me horny. And you shot me with all these words to annoy me, to discourage me, to have me.

You can never stay put, so I let you come and go when you want because my need for helping is bigger than the waste of time. And you take advantage of that, making up a reality that is not ours. If only there was just one of you.

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