Dirty Mind Poems Novels & Stories

So honey I am now, some broken thing I do not lay in the dark waiting for day here Now my heart is gold, my feet are right And I'm racing out on the desert plains all night

If we were on another floor, the neighbors would sure have sent in a complaint. She's lights out after I fuck her a second time, and I get up from the guest bed and leave her there. I'm clearly not drunk enough because memories assault me when I get into the shower and wash away the stench of yet another woman. This is the cycle, I fuck them and afterwards I need to clean myself. I can't really stand their touch. I'm fucked, ruined by a ghost. Lost by a possibility that will never be. Even after two orgasms, it takes me a while to drift off into sleep, only to be woken up by light slaps on my cheek.

My eyes were blind but I finally can see My heart was ignorant but beat wildly My mind is clear but were filled by you My entire soul is shaking, yearning for you.

Asher THE NEXT NIGHT Water runs in fast circles around my feet. Some of it gets in my eyes, blurring my vision. It doesn’t stop me from watching the drain. It’s easy to imagine myself washing away more than just sweat or dirt in this pristine place. The truth is, even if the water runs clear, my sins aren’t gone. Nothing can wipe them from my soul.

Can the man's dirty and unclean hands be washed off my body? The images from the hotel room appeared in my head like a flashback. Without thinking, I took the sponge and started scrubbing my body mercilessly. "You have to be clean. I need to be clean again. His filth mustn't be found on me. I want to be clean again. I need to wash off his dirt and grease," I mumbled, scrubbing my body with all my power. *. *. * RAMSEY

But for some reason, my mind was filled with all kinds of dirty images… Him on top of me…me scratching that back as my nails dug into that porcelain white skin…his lips on my throat… I had to visibly shake myself out of the sudden burst of images running through my mind and I didn’t know what had come over me that I had just imagined something so…vivid… The force of that daydream took me by surprise and I was left asking myself if I was even sane to be thinking about something like that when I was probably about to get fired for crossing certain lines?

I had been drenched in hers, and it felt like all of it, everything was filth. They made me this way. I could feel the dirtiness creeping back, like a stain that wouldn’t wash away. The way they pushed me, it wasn’t right. Darkness clung to my mind, closing in, clouding my judgment. I was out for blood, out for revenge. I couldn’t let anyone trample on my heart, my dignity, and walk away unscathed. My love had once been pure, untainted—but now? It was twisted, stained with black desire.

Hours dissolve like salt in rain. A spoon drops, making noise, after just a few mouthfuls if someone makes me eat. Wet stains spread across my shirt - left there, untouched. Murmurs slip out, aimed at the wall's pattern: broken sounds, pieces of verses she once recited. "My love is... something cold... buried in frost..." It's important that the cleaning person notices when I speak.

A disgusting, filthy sinner, and I was going to burn in hell for the thoughts that polluted my mind. For weeks, I had been fighting it. Praying until my knees were raw on the hard wood. Fasting until my stomach ached with an emptiness that mirrored the one in my soul. Reading the Bible until the words blurred into a meaningless jumble. But it was no use. The thoughts were still there. Dark, ugly, and deeply, deeply gay. Thoughts about men. About their bodies, their hands, their cocks. About being on my knees for them, about being used and filled in the most depraved ways. And the worst part? The most shameful, damning part? I didn't just think about them. I wanted them. I craved them.

The hunger in my veins hummed like a radio on low. I collapsed against a tree and let myself breathe like a person who'd been given a reprieve but not a pardon. Rain started—soft at first, then harder, a curtain meant to wash things clean. For a second I imagined it did—washed the blood, the mud, the need. For a second I thought of other things: of coffee that didn't taste like poison, of a bed that didn't creak with old sins. Those were small, foolish fantasies. I let them go, because fantasy and I have an agreement: it distracts you long enough to get you killed.