Succubus
Succubus
Nov 5 · 1 min read

My squishy shark.

I received in a tiny box, as a gift, an oval -kind of tubular- plush cute shark. It is soft, grey, has tiny soft fins. Has a cute trying-to-be-scary face.

I sleep with this emblem of comfort every night. Every time I turn away from my boyfriend’s warm body, it’s there. I tuck it into my neck and in my arms, and fall asleep.

Every night that I want to cry in mental exhaustion from him pushing every last button, squishy shark is there.

Every night after a few minutes of the satisfaction of a brain-dead-high man, and a would-rather-be-fucking-a-woman girl, squishy shark is there as a safe middle ground for me to separate two panting and sweaty bodies until I roll over with anxiety thinking that’s the only thing I’m good for.

Now, don’t get me wrong in this, I love my boyfriend. And I enjoy being with him. But no one is perfect. Even squishy shark has developed weird lumps over time. I see this place as an opportunity to release some stress and anger over some things I have in my head but can’t tell anyone in my life because I’d feel selfish for being upset about these things. I can’t just pull up squishy shark and tell him all my issues; one, it’s inanimate,and two, real people hear verbal words. Even through walls.

And trust me, a wall is much thinner when you have anxiety.

Succubus

Written by

Succubus

Winter Sisson. Singer, writer, MUA, survivor.