Erase that smug on your face.

You need not to pretend, I know

you are strong and I will always be

the weakling that you will carry.

As you wash the blood on your hands.

I could almost taste its metallic

bitterness where you often plunge while I

watch in melancholic fascination.

Achilles, lay with me tonight.

I yearn to touch those calloused hands

and untangle your flaxen strands…

The only help I could offer.

At passions’ height I sense your weakness,

your need, your ache, your hunger.

I hold your heel.

Erase that smug on your face.