Cinder block

 I lay her on the sheepskin.
The aggressive one.
The prison is cold.

There is no consent for anything.
My eyes follow the flow of her.
My finger tip makes contact.
The blues swirling patterns on her body.
The prison is quiet.
Because I am a tyrant.
She resists so I take her back to her cell.
Memorizing her curves.
I give her fresh clothes and soap.
But she just looks at me with those eyes,
that say if she had the chance she'd stick me.

Watch me bleed out slow.
Swing kicks into ribs help me on my on my way.
But she is chained cursed like skin ink.
Her cell's bars of frosty steel.
Floor is unforgiving cold concrete.
Punishment raw, hard and evident.
I make my way back down the long corridors.
Back to my office piles of release/parole forms.
my old dog looking at that sheepskin.
But he can't sleep there.
That is only for her.
The ember in my ash of a world.