The Pussy Siren

She was not a woman—

she was a hunger made flesh,

a glitch in the simulation, undeniable.

only the throttle of her hips,

the lawless gleam in her eye,

the scent of riot and surrender laced into breathless air.

Reality frayed at her touch.

Principles collapsed.

I dissolved into the fever of her,

a tangle of mouths and hands,

lost between ache and absolution.

There were no names here,

no pasts or futures—

only now,

only the slow drowning

in the velvet gravity of her body.

She did not beckon.

She consumed.

The mind wept, the soul moaned,

but the body—the body "worshiped,"

pleading for another fall, another gasp, another death.

In her thighs, in her slick warmth,

the world ended sweetly.

And I thanked her for the mercy of forgetting

everything that was not her.