Childhood

Once the palm of your hand could contain her desires.

Now, they slip through your fingers, spread like legs to receive her.

In the nights she cries, and you hold her, twisting her arms like a doll.

You do not need whips, anymore:

You smell the blood in between her thighs, and grow sated.

You lick your lips from the salt. Parched, you seek water - silky and containable.

If only you could curl her chest into a glass - in the lamplight, it would reflect your diamonds and her tears.

Let me glisten with the strength of your fears.