Let the melody crawl. Let it find the hinge of your hip, the hollow behind your ear, the small of your back where shame has tucked its claws. This is not love. This is not even lust. This is the admission —that every gentle thing has a twin made of teeth and want. That the same hand which rocks the cradle has gripped the throat.
So listen.
You wanted to be good. But good is a cage with a golden lock. Tonight, I hold the key, and it tastes of rust and honey. lewd lullaby