Excuse My Indecision; I'm a Work In Progress

You simultaneously still and ignite me,
which frightens me.

Guarded, walled, and blocked-off,
I responded not to catcalls
and sinister plots of indentured love-lust.

Yet, I sucked your dick.

The thought should make me sick.
To lower my proud head
simply to service your erect one,
I should detest myself.

Instead, my mouth commiserates your absence
and my epidermis tingles for your shudder.
I yearn to cause your convulsions.

The word “gorgeous” fatigues your lips
as you utter it between kisses.
Is each saccharine effort a ploy for sex?
Or are you fluent in genuine?

The thought darkens my heart.
I cannot connect when sex is involved.
Given the choice between love and lust,
you will always want your dick sucked.

This chemistry of seismic energy
only serves to shatter dreams.

However, when we fell asleep,
you held me.

You held me until I broke.

I shattered
and you refused to let go.

Then, as if you saw the wounds,
you kissed each fissure closed,
fitting the pieces into symmetry.

You simultaneously calm and frighten me,
which enlightens me.

[Confessions of love seep through my pores causing pustulous mounds to form and fester.
Your sweetness is my sickness and gorging on your infection is my favorite vice.]