Done

Rushing right in,
desperate for an answer,
he can smell the blood
of former assaults.
In the moment, this
is everything he needs.

The romancer, the predator
feeding upon your
confidences, your essence,
until his full is met and
the prowl is on.

He might linger to say,
“You wanna talk about this?”
An afterthought infused
with false honor, he knows
only his own hunger.
He always wounds each
answer as he leaves to
hunt for yet another.

This is the under-the-bed.

This is the dark.

And you are so much more
than this.

More than he has earned
the right to know.

© 2008 Marcy Stoeckel