You loop the rope around my wrists,
so delicately
I almost forget this is supposed to thrill me.
Your eyes glow barbaric
but mine can't unlock
from the braided cord
just barely rubbing my skin.

I never liked ropes in these kinds of situations,
I never felt they were right kind of tempting.
You see when you become part of the other you have to embrace it,
Like a flaw,
Only this one comes with a body count.
The rough texture of the rope feels like hay,
Like beard stubble
pressed against your cheek
in a high school classroom,
Like broken strands of your now fried hair lying at the bottom of your shower drain.
My wrists have a noose around them,
But this is a suicide not a lynching.

When his wife crawls into her bed
at the end of the night,
she won't smell my perfume,
We never go to his room.
I don't want to know
what a marriage bed looks like.
But you have to understand,
This is my choice.
I don't want him to love me,
Nor do I think he ever will.
He loves what I do to him,
What I'll let him do to me,
And that's as much of a connection
as the both of us need.

It always ends with me being called
his *****
by a woman who doesn't know
he's turned on by that word,
But I never break them up.
Either she doesn't leave,
And if she does,
We all 3 know this wasn't my doing.
The rope snapped
And its my skin that is left raw.
Their tension will only make me bleed.

Love will hurt you.
Women like me are a catalyst,
Not a damnation