I don’t want pieces of you. I want the parts you’ve buried — the sharp edges, the broken bones. I want the woman who bites back, cries out, and still begs for more.

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I don’t want your heart — I want the part of you that screams when no one’s watching. I want your tears, your trembling, your breathless surrender as I ruin you slow... over and over, until pain feels like prayer.

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Other men write poems for you. I’d rather carve my name between your thighs with every thrust until your body forgets every man who came before me — and fears the ones who try after.

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You weren’t meant to be touched. You were meant to be devoured. So I didn’t kiss you — I claimed you, with blood on my mouth and your name choking my throat like a curse I never want broken.

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I don’t make love. I tear through souls. And when it comes to you, I want every version — the crying, the moaning, the broken — until the only thing left in you is me.

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You didn’t fuck me, did you? You devoured me — slowly, like a man starved of control, biting into my sanity with every thrust… and I let you, because madness never felt that good inside me

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Rather than making an excuse, make yourself an excuse

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