Those moments you accuse me
of being cruel to you, of cutting you down for sport,
calling you names. It's just my attempt at playful banter,
an attempt that fails because it
takes you back to a time before;
when I was someone else and
others' feelings were merely my playthings
and my moral compass always pointed south.

I was a succubus
jumping from bed, to backseat, to bed, again,
feeding off my power over lovers' lips,
the looks of lust I'd get
as passers by caught glimpses of skin
hardly hidden under scraps of fabric, sold as clothing.
My eyes become wet behind my veneer.
Hurting you, I promise, is not the intent.