innocence

it's been such a
time-honoured tradition, how
can any man do
any differently?

it's there, the evidence
of it is everywhere. philomela's
a nightingale, cassandra's burning
in her tower and every
girl is willing, really, no
matter what she says.

who can deny the
pleasure of hard hands on
thrashing skin, of causing
bruises and tears, of your own
sweet salvation and release at the
expense of someone
else? it's a form of artistry, an
art of vermillion and indigo,
of fragile glass and ripped-apart
silk. you're just
doing what's always been
done and isn't that just
grand and good and godly?

dear lucrece, you should
have run away faster.