Candlelight and roses were never your thing.
You told me a darker fairy tale that night,
though I never would have believed it,
dancing with you in the moonlit dark.
The fire you preferred was inside you,
smoldering, seething, seeping into me:
my cold, soft skin, till then untouched
by hands that didn't wait for permission.
The only rose you gave me was this one:
peeling back the collar, you can see it,
an intricate little bloom to grace my neck,
deep scarlet just beneath my skin.
I was not scarred by you; I was merely trained,
twisted into something sweetly fierce,
a doe-eyed creature with razor teeth.
Come back to me now. I'm ready for you.
