*Trigger Warning – contains elements of suicide, pornography, masturbation, and vulgar language.
This Is Not Love I've fucked you through the screen countless times. Jerked and came to you, even though you don't know my name. Smirked in devilish delight at your lack of limits, and the way you smile, giggle, and moan in pleasure during the most obscene acts. But as I search for you across the web on this dark night-- in between the thumbnail images of you riding cock with so much vitality-- I catch a disturbing headline. It seems you weren't having nearly as much fun as you had let on. Twenty and dead, slayed by your own hand. And my own hand is still wrapped around my cock, lusting after your naked body but sickened by what my pleasure cost you. You were someone's daughter, someone's sister, someone's friend, and now you're gone. But despite my emotional grief, this selfish beast within me can't stop wanting to see you get railed from behind one more time. Because the screen, like a glass curtain, disconnects me from you; it allows me to strip you of your humanity and view you as merely an image-- a moving picture I can claim as my own, do what I want with, and hang upon my wall-- instead of a precious child of God. Bile rises in my belly. What the hell is wrong with me? I feel so disgusting, so dirty. Porn is not healthy; it is not harmless fun nor necessary sexual release. There's a young woman who's deceased, and all I can think about is using her ever after she's dead to get whatever pleasure I can from watching the life get fucked out of her. This is not a fun, sexual feast. This addiction, this craving has reduced me to a beast-- no more than a selfish animal driven by unrestrained desire and confined by the chains of lust. Yes, it's exciting and thrilling, but I know in my gut that we were created for so much more than this. This is not love; this is a perverse sickness that spreads by convincing your conscience it's natural, nothing but fun and games. Have we no shame, lusting and feasting off another human's pain? This is not love, but its ancient enemy, consuming without giving, leaving both performer and observer wounded, lonely, and empty. Justin Farley
Anyone interested in my published collections of poetry can find them on Amazon.