My Miss loves my wrists in Marc Jacobs and roses,
stems snaking around the flesh and bones like ropes,
charmed by the perfume and scarring the skin,
this is how she likes me, when she awakes, aware and ferociously hungry.
She stares with windy eyes, the blueish grey of a stormy sky,
and I am silent, save my breath, which follows the slow rhythm of her fingers beating against the bedside.
When night falls, she stalks the streets.
Daddy strikes a scrumptious shadow in her leather duster,
doting on me as she rounds on her prey,
inevitable as the sunset, and six times as beautiful.
We always dance until dawn,
arm in arm as I recall the night she found me,
lost in a little alley,
my heart pouring with my tears,
until she took me under her golden gaze,
and then, as if by magic, I was caught in her spell,
bitten by the curse of love.