My poem for Wotever
There was one time, wax hot tight on her skin
cracking a little as she squirmed beneath
my sharpened thumbnail, breathing through her teeth
a little harshly. Pausing I sipped gin
the lemon slices bright, the bottle blue
as sky; she feigned a struggle with her chains.
I let her sip then pulled it back. The pains
we take with lover's needs. I took her shoe
red patent leather used its heel to score
small puckers on her thigh. And heard her moan
and sometimes felt more truly on my own
with her than when alone, could not ignore
that she'd forget and cry in ecstasy
on other's names that she loved more than me.
And yet she came to me, knocked twice, slipped in
using the key I gave her. Love has been
less kind to me than being used I fear,
when unrequited. Better to face facts
perform perverse and quite delighful acts
than sit hope lust weep know my sweet my dear
would never love me. Better be her whore
her backdoor lover and at least get laid.
Told her to kneel before me. She obeyed.
Because she did not love me. Passion's claw
sharp in my flesh. No scream, a poker face.
Cruel ingenious hands, coldness of heart.
Act well the torturer's not the lover's part.
Play hunter, be the chaste prey of the chase.