Slip not your slither-hands on me
To snake across my skin
Your probing touch may warming be
But strikes me cold within,
Your eyes may call me beautiful
But rake my body raw
And fine words only serve to pull
My soul beneath your maw.
I do not want the drunken breath
That flows between your lips,
Its sweetness only speaks of death
From roaming fingertips
A death of spirit, hid within,
That marks much deeper still
Than spoiled body, black with sin
That revels in the kill.
Your greedy hands tear through my heart
And scar my searing mind
So I would rip myself apart
To free me from your bind.
– s. Clark