The wrongness of it all

She knows that there are some things rather dark
In her and in his mind that coincide;
They used to talk about it, now they mark
The presence and it’s not something they’ll hide;
But prefer to seek out; she feels half sick
At the thrill of the wrongness of it all;
But will not fight the splendour of a prick,
Unless it’s one of conscience; let her fall
Be absolute, not partial; once complete,
Then she’ll feel she’s been driven to the place
That she can be fulfilled in – quite replete
And so alive, though no one else can trace
The source of happiness: humiliation
Joined, in darkness, with her degradation