I want you disgusted by her rage. The chambers in which this quiet soul would harken for the day of your withering has yet to hit the bottom. She sings, low and deep, until it is time.
Vitriol spills from her womb and Hatred undulates. She tightens around the fingers plunged in to her core. The grip holds, seducing the fool into thinking he can coax her and control her.
A silly fool you were to think you could make her feel pleasure, when all you did was disappoint. You did not bring much but a sub par self disguised as healed.
Hatred thrives off mundane and notices where hubris has shrugged off for disregard. There, she will sit and wait. Toying with herself until you deign Grace her with the bare minimum. She will blind you with her skills until she sucks you to full depth; to the hell you thought was unique to your work.
You are not new to her. You're not special, either.
Her tongue lapped until there were teeth. There you see her - the chaos you've created. Her rage splitting down the shaft to your very core. Just as you had done to her.
YOU ARE READING
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PoetryA collection of poetry across ages, moments, and confusion. Tw - read at own desire
