Friday, September 11, 2015


I judged your profile,
forgetting Lord Byron was a bastard.

You were a garret in Paris,
a moth in the darkness.

I brought my black bag,
brimming with legs and breasts.
I couldn't cure you.
The infection was too ingrained.

Your pretty words
turned my head 360.
Your hook was barbed.
I swallowed.

The fight was pitiful.
You cut the line,

leaving me numb,
among the splatter,
my faith torn,
my feet shredded,
your cock broken.

No comments:

Post a Comment