Wrapped tight around my wrist? I stalled at first.
Fistful of rough love? As pillow talk, sure,
but I’d break you. Slow brain’d, heavy limbs, cursed
with crude taste. Bliss is something to endure.
Called you the nickname of my dead daughter
once. I shudder at what else I might say
while in heat, rutting. “Who’s the cum dumpster?”
you’d asked, unaware of my past. We play
games that require trust, but there’s one secret
I can’t divulge. How else do fairy tales
end but the Princess impaled on a fist?
One more broken daddy, Princess Owlet.
You ain’t her, star-child. I’ll endure with my nails
clipped, with you, lover, wrapped around my wrist.