My Bitch
My bitch bad as hell. My bitch barely speak. My bitch just eat the dick. My bitch has issues projecting her voice. My bitch has social anxiety. My bitch just eat the dick. My bitch suffered trauma in her childhood, and thus has issues expressing herself and communicating outside of sex. I accept my bitch. Not because it might seem like the patriarchal ideal to have a nymphomaniac girlfriend who doesn’t talk, but because my bitch is beautiful. Outside, and, somehow even more, on the inside. And no, that is not a sexual innuendo. My bitch is making progress. Me and my bitch laugh cause we making love, and make love cause we laughing. My bitch in therapy now. I go with her. No, we not having issues. I’m just there because she’s more comfortable with that set-up. My bitch says I encourage her to open up. I’m proud of my bitch. She’s speaking more. It’s genuinely breathtaking to watch my bitch become a better bitch. I love my bitch. My bitch bad as hell.