Ugly passions

I wonder how many of them it will take till there is no kindness left. Careful with the good ones, the nice ones, because when you are all done with them, there may be none left. The woman I'm thinking isn't even the one that hurt me most. That prize is for another who I cannot think of without reflectively ending the thought with 'bitch.' Yet she did her job well, bringing out of me strains of cruelty that I'd have strenuosly denied existed before I met her. And now? Now, my fantasies of her scare me. Of all the woman I've tangled with, it's her I'd most like to get back in bed with. Is she the fairest of them all? Probably. The vainest? Definitely. The cruelest? Who knows? She's definitely the lustiest, a demure Southern front the appetite of a Succubus within. Even then I knew I could do far more than I did then, go much further into those places you don't like to admit to anyone you'd ever think of going. And I regret not going those places, but know that it'd be better for her, and for me (my soul at least) if we never again met. Because when my mind wonders to her during mastubatory fantasies, there is nothing nice or kind involved; even things we did together are tinged with passions generously dipped in ugly, hunchbacked beasts with no redemption within. Tomorrow I venture into her territory, and though logically I know the chances of us meeting are slim anyway, I can't help but wonder what if. Yeah, pray for me people, even if I don't particularly believe in prayer.