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.
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