You: " If you liked it, you can write a poem about it. I genuinely enjoy being inside of you. What did you think about when we slept together? I thought it was hot.”
The PTSD is you: the dead reminiscence
And, menacing man, I know it's truly you
Because your bright shadow shimmers in my cycle-of-abusers' eyes
Your gingerly countenance skates their hush-hush lips
Your bittersweet charm skips in their sweet-and-sour swagger
Being what I never wanted you to be: permanence
They recognize the grinning destruction in me to be you: their sinful kinsman
Flashback flings: unwillingly reliving your reviling, which was transgressed against higher instruction
Your seduction really as induction to cast-down my imaginations
Coercive woe bringing our self-exalting activities into carnal captivity
Once edified, your darkness shot a headstrong stronghold, conceiving a void of a contrite heart
The color red and then The Color Purple: "He just climb on top of me and do his business".
I came to mourn you, not moan you
You impressed an empty chasm where an orgasm should have been
You were my original sin, not my first self-granting arrogant discretion
Only you know your moves but you never felt good
Tempestuous temptation, you were nothing but unfruitful pain inside of me
A reprobate mind
Electrocuted by your evil eyes
You're better with your clothes on
Unlike your house, I don't leave God's house disappointed and disempowered