“Fairy tales and sex shouldn’t hurt,” you say.
“Except when I want them to.” True. Except

when I read to you tales from that ballet
of the Snow Queen and the Nutcracker kept

with her in bed. Tales that turn your requests
toward the need for my flesh. “Press it into

me,” hands pushing your bra over your breasts
and your low-down moan, “split my ass in two,”

as I redden your face … my cock engorged
in your throat. “Love me, kiss me, choke me, fuck

me,” you hiss. Unmasked the best fairy tales
reflect what scares us, like fever dreams forged

in what we refuse. Embrace love’s havoc.
Embrace all that rips away our veils.