I want to tell you about the fiction that I did not write,
Well, I did write it down, but it was never fiction.
It was about sex (it all ends up being about sex, if you give it enough time).
You thought I was smart enough to imagine things so dark and despicable,
but I wasn’t; I was stupid, stupid and flexible.
Stupid and easy.
Stupid and vile.
I called it fiction, because in our bed I was simple,
the common girl; afraid and sympa.
I don’t really know why I never told you.
It was just funny,
to know you wanted something but were afraid to ask.
It was evil of me, I know.
That is why I now confess,
I was a very bad girl and then
I was a very bad girl again.