Your kind of love snaps
The back like
Whiplash claiming
All of my attentions but
Returns none with
A quickness that is
Slow in purpose and
Easily teases with its torments repeatedly
Placed on random parts of
My skin already
Hot and bothered I
Cannot seem to recover with
Any form of grace causing
Me bouts of furious femininity that
Results in the parting of my thigh's flesh so
That I can catch your eyes and
The subtle sway of my hips to
Bring you focus on
The words of want that crawl
Across my moistened lips signifying
Here is where you should place your hands as
I clarify:
I have no need for
Your mixed messages nor
Words anymore because
It is time to either
Fuck me or
Leave me
Alone