You come to me, your Jesus,
With legs spread, begging.
Sitting there, nude, as an
Unravelled mystery. But,
I am your shackles. Holding
You down, stroking your
Conscience. Your thoughts
Drip onto my tongue. You
Cry out that you cannot write,
You cannot express these
Feelings. And as I watch your
Body writhe, I cannot think of
Words, without thinking of
What I want to do to you.
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