She slivers in like some deadly snake, quaking in the night and I take a stab at crying out like a lonesome dove. She picks at my feathers, until her teeth are wrapped around my throbbing head, taking me all in with her mouth. I am crying again, again, again. Stop it. This madness is indefinitely maddening. How does one keep a secret? By tightening those pretty red lips made of venom with a quickening, slick tongue. I want to use the word hate but it isn’t heavy enough, valid enough because hate only comes when the love has rotted away. Strange that I can feel her love even if she struck my name like some unknown rhythmic cord and hid it away from her irrational, homophobic mother. I wonder if she will strip naked one day for a man, thicken with a tightened orgasm and reach the throes of passion in which I took her quick on that shadowy bed with wide open windows. I wish to be a man sometimes, then she would not keep me embedded in secret.