4. It Was Not Real

I fell in love with a ghost writer on twitter. She posts a lot and has a hot bod. Maybe she isn't real. Maybe he is a male. Maybe not even a person. An AI my oh my.

And what shall I call this mysterious person. She told me she can be anything I want her to be. A vixen like Marilyn. A virgin like Mary. Or a queen like Elsabeth.

I had to make a decision. All of those ladies I am afraid are dead. Can you be Dua Lipa or Mia K instead? Or maybe a bit wild like Bonnie B but I don't wanna share you with anyone else.

I promise loyalty, honesty, truth and sincerity. What I hate most are lies, half truths, and twisted muses.

She has real talent. She posts a hell of a lot. I will not describe her physical features. To this day I can't forget her nipples. The naked videos she sent made me cry each night.

Oh to be a prisoner. Oh to lust for someone. Oh the punishment I hide. How shameful it is to live a double life. To say I want her yet dare not announce. To say I wanna marry her without fucking her.

Call me daisy. Call me baby. That's me. Crazy young lady.

Who am I you might ask? Funny you mentioned. Tbh. Idk myself.

Do you?

A rhetorical question.

Yours sincerely,

Charlie N. XoxoX

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