Inspired by Oatmeal Girl’s post Distraction.
She wrote me a poem.
A poem that speaks of lovers
gathering again after a spell apart,
of hands reacquainting with bodies,
and of lips devouring muted gasps
and moans.
A poem that speaks of me,
of how I appear in her dreams
and how I make her feel.
In her poem I am beautiful.
In her poem I am strong.
In her poem I am worthy of her.
And yet, as I have her in my arms,
as she is reciting her poem to me,
the beauty of which she speaks
is not in her presence.
No, only I am.
I am not the man in her poem.
I never was.
I am beyond redemption.
A beast merely pretending to be a man,
a man worthy of her.
A beast that must possess her,
take her, claw at her flesh
and mount her.
Ripping her skin and biting her flesh
I take her while her words
keep raining on me, burning my skin
like Holy water.
