conversations with imaginary sisters, dark is the lure, erotic poetry, i'm spilling more thank ink y'all, itches itched, mine, poem, rude boy, shadowlands, sonnet
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.”