Every now and again,
I get lost in the lustful looks you leave all across my body,
and I find myself aflame,
wondering if it would feel the same for your hands to replace your hungry eyes.

That is normally the point where I start to cry.

I’ve never been to war,
but my past has fucked me up,
and this is not love,
or even desire,
it’s my narcissistic need to be the dirty dream of someone who can’t stop themselves from saying so,
because I have a predilection for validation.

I want to be so much more than pretty, or kind of adorable,
I want to be the queen of quietening Kings,
I want to leave nothing but a shivering, writhing mess atop the throne.
You disgust me so,
but you want me, so,
I sail a little closer to the sun,
burning up in the beautiful gaze of hellfire.