what she wanted from Me,
to be taken and totally ravished,
to be rendered like meat
left smarting, smoking and chewed,
and so I did My best to oblige her
in that one day We shared.
When she retreated from My room that night,
she left with eyes burning red,
hair mussed and matted and crusted with Me,
lips bruised and stinging, throat rough and irritated,
and her vulva swollen crimson, throbbing further within.
She limped out with an aching back and hips,
bearing mattress burns on her knees
an odd contusion or two from being bent over
and pounded against the bathroom counter,
while the collar had left deep marks on her neck.
I knew the next morning
she would feel the soreness from Me
as she sat uneasily on the church pew with her husband and children.
Yet another meaning of the term came to apply,
much to My own dismay.
For I had long viewed her as the most beautiful flower of all,
who, while firmly planted in another man’s garden,
turned her petals to Me,
blooming even more in the rays of My attention,
but I could not be content
with merely admiring her beauty from afar,
and the mad yearning for her fragrance filling My nostrils,
her nectar flowing sweetly on the tip of My tongue,
this runaway desire to put her in My own bouquet
at last overrode My gentle prudence
and I plucked that fine blossom,
only to have it wither in My hand
and disappear on a gust of wind.
There is nothing left of her now,
but her faint scent, which lingers…
and I wonder
if all she remembers of Me
is the pain,
and if any of My scars upon her
will prove to be permanent.