Make it tender, you suggest. I stop. Think.
Shrug. A tender love poem? It could be
done, I suppose. But why? Love without kink
is love in name only. It’s like the sea
without waves; the only way you might drown
is through boredom. You must be difficult
in bed, you sigh. Perhaps, I say, then frown.
But who will ever know? Like the occult,
few have experienced my mysteries.
I leave vague tenderness to those begging
to get laid. I know a slow hand can please
when it’s a fist. Love lies in defiling
and sin; what you call ruin and hardcore.
Love lies in all that you fear to ask for.
memories of my ghost sista 