Lying on the bed
beside an unknown man,
my naked body all cold
and sweaty after our shameful deed.

Shameful, because I wish I could say the
man was my husband. Although, not that I want him to be one.
Each night these acts of lustful deeds
quench the undeniable thirst and
longing that is embedded within me.

My promiscuous life has surely been
detrimental in having a committed
relationship so far... Women snicker in
disdain behind my back, making it a
valuable fodder to feed their gossip.
Just like an alcoholic who gets his euphoric release with one sip,
I look forward to such euphoric release, through venereal encounters.

It is frustrating when I try to do my best
to avoid such desires, but my therapist says
that I'm addicted to it, aka a
nymphomaniac. As I stare at the four
walls in my room, I feel like ending
myself, once and for all! However,
I'm a coward to finish the job.
The therapist concludes of having
my past trauma influence such an addiction and that this is a way of escapism. Well, the mind sure plays a cruel game, I'll tell you that!

At 13 years, full of life, my naive mind
didn't see the impending dangers that
lay in...