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You will drip with pain. Seduction will itch

in you; an itch that leads to shadowlands.


The dark is the lure. I know what will bewitch

you and why your inner sinner demands


control. I don’t know, though, why you’d submit.

Married. Pious. At peace, you say. Those old


dreams, back when you were a slave to your clit,

must be gone. They’re not for me. You’ve controlled


what still runs riot in me; which is why

I don’t share each gasp, each cum-soaked finger,


each of my wet dreams about you. Divine

lust is dark, like faith. Once I would defy


the world to make you drip. You’re no longer

itch. You no longer call me, “rude boy, mine.”