The Flaying

The wildest animal passions    
invariably attract some element of danger,    
the degree of peril    
rising in proportion to their wildness.  
   
We may never know if it was the wind,  
rampaging a cull of leaves along the Avenue,    
or the errant October moon    
hungry to conjure blood.  
   
The precise combination of circumstance  
that served first to unleash her darkest side    
may never be fully understood.  
   
But there was no doubt,    
on our final night,    
the fuse for all her demons    
had been well and truly lit.  
   
The black leather whip,    
with its seven cruel flails,    
which at first had proved a revelation,    
soon became a drug    
for her poor tongue's addiction    
a slave to the dreadful worship of the knot.  
   
Its crackle and crack on her skin    
seemed to act like a whirlpool  
churning emotions into the bitterest form of gruel.  
It became her unholy child,    
nestling beside her pillow at all times,    
always ready to play    
and more than eager to feed.  
   
After use,    
she would lick away the rivulets of blood,    
slowly relishing the exquisite taste of her pain.  
   
At first, I had been astonished    
by the limits to the agonies    
she would beg me to inflict    
and as the months passed  
I grew increasingly concerned,    
as her appetite showed no sign  
that it might peak or ever diminish.  
   
She would lie awake,    
restless in between healing,    
tracing the terrible scars on her skin,    
smiling to herself as she remembered    
the pleasures of each stroke.    
   
Now, there were no places left    
where the lash of the whip had not been.  
   
I implored her to wait    
until the flesh grew stronger    
but she would only sink to her knees    
and weep.    
   
Fool that I was,    
I could no longer witness    
such desolate despair  
and so at I last,    
to my eternal shame  
finally I gave in.  
   
Standing here by the grave  
I am certain at least  
she rests gratefully  
free from the pain she so loved.  
   
After I cut her down  
and in accordance with her wishes  
the body was conveniently burned  
so no trace of a scar remained  
I concocted a story    
to satisfy the authorities,  
a terrible accident    
which no sane person might have foreseen.  
   
And so it is the owls  
who comfort her now  
until their calls are hushed  
by my visits here each midnight.    
 
For then,  
I bear the crack of her whip  
pouring its venom upon the ground  
and as her bones shudder and moan  
I know she squirms with pleasure
while the blood still flows
six feet down.