Write her stories
she said—
not the ones
I keep in
stitched-up journals
but the ones
that pace the
hall at night
barefoot
breathing fire—
the kind that scratch
at the back door of her mind
howling when it rains—
the ones
that make her
sleep
like a kitten after.

She doesn’t want heroes
She wants a king
with blood on his knuckles
half-naked crawling out
from under her bed.

She wants
my desires
asking all nice
and proper—
not dressed up
in Sunday talk
but raw
like teeth marks
on a bitten apple
juicy and wet.

Tell her about my hunger
she asks—
how it walks beside me
making me lick salt
from every side
of her collarbone.

She wants my stories—
the ones that bite
curl around her in the dark
and purr.

Write her stories
she said—