You appeared out of the mist of my heightened senses, that day I bumped into you while clutching a bouquet of my hopes.
You must have recognized the dream in my eye. The one that screams love me, keep me, lay me on the platter of your wicked desire.
It’s true—you gave me an opportunity to check my good sense before I fell into your trap. But I had lost the key to that part of myself, because you had already blinded me with charm, deep smiles and a bare chested invitation to sin at your feet.
I had forever on my mind.
You had me stripped and laid out at your mercy at the first hint of my weakness. I understood that what your tongue and fingers exposed, to your indecent gaze, was a seal of our affection. You took and I gave and I surrendered with sounds that only made you ask for more.
You smiled when I lay spent, then possessed my wild places, your hips a fine tuned instrument that made music with each thrust. I begged for your release, your c*ck in your hand, your aim precise—you have taught me to be your willing slave. My blush at your requests must have been the point of no return, where you realized that what I had permitted was more than raw flesh burning, it was also my heart exposed and my soul, the sounding bell to the thievery you were plotting.
There is no reason for me to trust you, after all you have ripped my heart from my chest and taken it somewhere deep into the woods with you, with no intent of returning it. You are skilled at hide-and-go-seek—you with the muscles, the beard and the woodsman’s spell.
I see you, from my place, hidden behind the stand of Hawthorns. You sit by the fire, you have made outside your forest home, and stare at the blood on your hands, my heart still beating silently in your treacherous palms.
Are you waiting for me to follow my heart into your unknown, foreign world?
Are you listening to the whispers of my soul? Do you hear that I am broken by your thievery? That when I opened my dress to my waist, I thought you would only look, perhaps leave a kiss, but not cut me open and wrench my already planned out life from my bosom?
I am a city girl—I have dreams of pencil skirts and stiletto’s, not jeans and hiking boots.
Do not bring your fingers to your lips. Do not taste my life-source. Do not wipe my blood on your chest and face like a warrior, hoping it will give you strength. If you do, I will be trapped by your endless, constant longing.
I know you. You are the one who spoke of taking it slow. But then you seared my back with your lips, my breasts with your hands, my aching, erect nipples with your demanding fingertips.
You can feel me now. Your ears are alert to the sound of my approach. Your mouth is watering as you remember my tongue on yours. Your legs are ready for flight—deeper, deeper into the woods—so that I will always have to run to your embrace.
The door to your cabin is open. I see the soft light of candles glowing within.
You have made a brew that will poison my resolve, and you stand with cup in hand. Yes, I have been strong, I have tried to stay away, but the smell of your enchantment draws me further down the path, away from the safety of my hiding place.
Where I lived before was comfortable, it was what I knew. There were no great demands on my soul to grow. I thought I knew who I was.
But now my heart is a hostage to your poetry and your words—it wants respite against your hungry, chiseled flesh. My heart is weak. It’s forgotten how to keep me alive without you at my side.
There is no reason for me to trust my heart.
It calls to me in soft promises, and I take the cup from your hands. Drink me, you say, your eyes impulsive and dark.
My hands surround yours, thirsty for the liquid of your dreams for us. I am lost. I am found. I am no longer what I was. You have stolen it all.
Author: Monika Carless
Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock