I’ve lost count of all the orders I have growled.
And, how many bruises I’ve nursed and watched bloom.
How many cries to stop, or not to stop have I heard?
Equal to the number of stitches passed in a loom.

I am in demand.
By some, I am adored.
I am in command.
By some, I am loathed.

What is the fountainhead of my lament?
What else, a girl. But not just any girl.
No. She is different. Right down to her scent.
The very thought of her sets my mind awhirl.

She flirts. She’s coy. She dances in the rain.
She offers herself, then casually skirts out of reach.
“I belong in your rope. I ache for your sweet pain.”
Perhaps, it is all just a figure of speech.

She is well aware of the wounds she inflicts.
Each one cold, calculated, delivered with ease and expertise.
Then she weeps at the bounty of the cruelness she inflicts.
“I am sorry sweet Sir.” Her lies are my disease.