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.”