She tells herself, through
thrusts of assured knots,
that she is someone stronger
than the man who she allows to
maul her in her ideologies. That her worldview won't
be corrupted by a simple man's sadistic pleasure.
That her limbs aren't spat through, or sour with
maybe-so-kindof-after-loves. Her wrists
intertwine around the back of his
neck- a shoreline of sweat saturated hair and
perspiration-beaded skin.

She sings for him, moans for him-
the language of epiphanic infatuation,
fluency in the code of malnourished love.
The tides, they change- they writhe,
spine-tap into foaming white obligation, the choking
of an effeminate heroine.
He pledges to her- sells himself to
a dove already sold. Tells her
the sunset.

Sympathetic? No.
Apathy for the slut- a plague for her
to fuck her sickness through.