The Death We Die

His smile, his pull at my skirt,

His arms, his touch, his skin,

And him outside his shirt,

Are the things I like of him.

And though I do not mind,

If he eats me right out,

He likes to take his time

With his manhood and his mouth.

The love that he threads

With a milkshake and omelet,

Oh! The boiling eggs,

Know not the boundaries to set.

So I devour him for breakfast,

And ooh! It should be a crime!

Aah! The multiple murders of lust,

As we wriggle and we whine.

So throw away the shame.

Nibble at me, now bite!

‘Cause nothing tastes the same,

As the death we die each night.