October

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.