Between the inner webs of deception, I toil.
Strangled with ropes of uncertainty,
and unravelling threads of doubt, you are
a sugar kiss that rots finer judgement
and incisive hands that spoiled my will
to fight.
I am swollen lips tempted and teased,
pulled and pushed with no intention
of forgetting their master.
It's funny to think I once possessed
some semblance of a plan for prevention,
until you conquered me completely.
And darling, it would have been funnier
for your eyes to bleed, for your ears to weep,
at the piano noise of my body permeating
like haunting discord and dark crescendos
from the broken ivory keys.
In the game of back and forth,
you bit so hard it turned my conscience
into the other wild of red.
So I was merely the current favourite toy,
but you will become my primal prey.
And darling, there is nothing funny
that in your charred name, others will feel
the hoarse roar of red flames
that I am going to call.