Lonely Stories

He could never forget it. How could he? it was one year already, and he had nightmares as he had nights.

I've been trying to write something for weeks and I couldn't put down a single word, but suddenly this young woman almost made me grab a pen from the museum clerk and start writing poetry in my arm.

Try writing a story with a gun in your hand

When I woke up I was alone on the blue velvet couch. No sign of Camila or Ana. Thin brownish lines of dried blood ran down from my chest as a reminder.

She smells of rotten hope and lonely sex

I only speak truth when she makes me moan.

The god of orgasm and of friendfight