Bite me.

Bite me.

No, really. Bite me. Make it hurt.
(It doesn’t really hurt.)
Okay, it hurts – but it doesn’t.
it feels good.
Not when you’re biting.
When you let go.
That’s when I let go.

When I imagine,
I look at you
right at you
Daring you
and bending you to my will
(because it’s my mind and it’s all my will)

When it’s real
nothing of the sort.
Unpredictable you
I control nothing
That’s the way I like it.

So when this starts
It’s all “Bite me.”
But in reality,
I always ask….
please?

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