I thought I’d play it cool, but I melted.
I thought I’d be strong, but my will is as weak as my body,
and now I am in a pen of my passion,
imprisoned and… alarmingly into it.
I’m a kissing cousin to Clarice Starling,
caught up in my love as the second book unfolds,
stung by how right it feels to be the ride or die of someone so wrong for me,
not unaware, but uninterested in all the reasons to desist.
It gets harder and harder to hide how little interest I have in leaving your bed every morning.
37 trillion cells in my body can’t be wrong.
They call to you at all hours of the night,
I am kept awake unless I rest in your arms,
which I find a little charming,
looking, with lust in the mirror,
in love with myself,
because how you kissed me last night still tastes so sweet on my lips.