i like it rough
i like it hard
i wanna hurt when you're done
i just wanna feel your love

in the form of bruises
in the form of bites
under your navy leather
under your unadulterated control

do you think i can ride a stallion ?
can i ride it now ?
i feel far too empty
why don't you come ...

Skin on skin,
Fingers interlocked,
Hair cascades down,
My stomach tied in knots.

Breathing grows heavy,
Anticipation runs high,
When I caress you,
The most rewarding sigh.

Your eyelashes flutter,
Brushing against my cheek,
Eyes closed in surrender,
No words we need to speak.

I trace constellations
Across your beating chest,
Each quiet inhalation
Sings my worries to rest.

You pull me closer still,
Hands settled at my waist,
Time slows to a hush
In this sacred, silent place.

Locked within this embrace,
I fear making the wrong move-
A connection so unexpected,
This beautiful moment with you.

I don't think, I really want this...

But surely, I
still have the eyes, to perceive
that she's the kind of,
fever dream
that makes grown men, and women,
lament, and weep

for the way, her jeans
gather round, her knees, and thighs--
for the way, her eyes...
pay homage, to the ancient skies...

would you take...a ride?
And, hey...would I...?
I don't think I might...

but she asserts her swerve,
with a certain sway,
and her curves,
would serve,
as hors d'oeuvres,
for days.
Her fruity lips...
with a sparkle glaze

they trickle...dark...as marmalade.
But if harvested, late...
what's their carnal taste?

...Is she the mark, on the grave,
by which, I think...I know myself?

No...I don't think I really want this...

not a shiver, runs through me.
But, sue me...for looking,
when she's so ******* juicy...
does it consume me?
Does it titillate me?
...I don't feel me, hyperventilating?

What if she turned, to face me?
To lay me, lace me
between her thighs...
internalized; eternal lies,
to sate me,
with her flavor, to bait me
acerbic, and savory...
Her skin, burning, like a lamp wire,

and her fingertips, debasing me.
What if I, was her vampire,
and she,
the one slaying me?
A slaking queen...
aching to break, her thirst...
so, what if I staked her, first...?
Would she mortify,
like ash?
Or would she forge, a lighted path,
and make me wish,
she had, forced...my hand?

No...I don't think I really want this...

not a shiver, runs through me.
But, sue me...for looking,
when she's so ******* juicy.

. (or: how I taught him to ruin me properly) .

His mouth was a chalice filled with thunder—
I drank from it like a man who’s forgotten
how to refuse ceremony.

He said my name like it was a title he meant to inherit.
Not whispered. Not begged.
Claimed.

I took him the way ruins take ivy—
slowly, wholly, letting him crawl through my cracks
and make green what should have stayed dead.

He undressed like it was a coup:
first the belt, then the silence,
then the smirk that knew it had already won.

I touched him like I’d memorized him in a past life
and forgot I was the one meant to teach.

My hands shook.
He steadied them with his teeth.

Skin against skin,
I forgot which of us was ancient.
His body: a question I answered with every bruise.
Mine: a confession disguised as architecture.

I marked him with softness.
He returned it with hunger.

“Slower,” I breathed.
“Why?” he replied.
And there was no answer
that didn't sound like surrender.

We moved like two wolves trying not to pray.
Every gasp a liturgy.
Every ****** a reformation.

I let him trace my scars like roads on a forgotten map.
He said, “You’ve been here before.”
I said, “And I never left.”

Later, he wore my shirt.
Not out of affection—
but to study the shape of power
from the inside.