Traitor


I can feel it again.
It's persistent, cruel and
strangely ignored.

So deep inside me.

The pit of writhing,
seething, aching
pain that spins and pulses.
It tells me
that you're cold.
Dead, wicked and
pure in the
blackest way.

You're not like me.

With storms of silver
closed, lashes pale,
you deceive me,
and look true
- perhaps good,
for that moment.

Breathe for me.

But the slithering,
sickeningly beautiful
feeling will not
leave me.

My skin ablaze,
my heart searing,
lips dry, yes,
so much warmth,
so much pain
from such a
delicate
glittering
monster.

I muse,
almost hysterical
as I reason
through carresses,
that my hatred will
never stop me.

The eternally
decided disapproval
touches not the soft,
precious aching,
when you give in
so sweetly, as my
violence (so gentle)
forces itself
inside you again.

I had forgotten.

No sweetness there,
though the blaze,
the heat and
darkness, delicious,
make me lose sight.
You take and take,
sharp and cold,
love each breath I give.

I know.

I know you wouldn't
cry as I do.
Tears to be
kissed away,
but tears that
hate you.
They know my secret.

They know the evil,
the sense of deep justice
that fails to stop me.

Little Lucifer,
I'll only give up
your taste,
when you've ended your
fascination
with the purest of me.

And believe me as I speak
- No magic upon me,
No threats or
soulless attack.

My soul knows.

But,
imperfect as I am,
forgive me.