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.