I was a slut for his sex.

A mistress, not a wife.

A real home-wrecking whore.

How he loved every second,

never once stopping, never once feeling guilt.

How no matter what he may have told you

he did it over and over he made it clear… always,

it was I whom he loved.

His hunger took my shape, as did his desire.

And you? You were a thing to be used.

Discarded at the end, but then,

all things must at last outlive their use.

It is the nature of being a thing.