Self-inflicted

I peeked behind the curtain again
Wanting to be wrong
Knowing I wouldn’t

Embers warm and hissing still
Masochist voyeurisme 

Such infatuation, desire
And tenderness between you
Sweet concoction to lace
This blade forged in the fires
Of my own lust

No dim in your eyes
No tremor in your voice
No recoiling from my hand 
Coulda shoulda been
A paranoid spell

But it’s really you
Yearning him
And it’s really me 
Writing this
Isn’t it?

I staked my heart        I did
You’d never make
Love                           to another
Stories
A fool                          out of me