In my hands, there’s a storm with your name on it. On your belly, I spread my truth and demand you look at me. If you can’t look at me, you must be lying, and I don’t want a lover that’s afraid of coming face to face with how things really are. In my kiss, there’s a mix of contempt and devotion, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. It’s true, the left side of me hates you- wants to see you sink and burn- but only because I’ll never be as beautiful as the night creature you are. The right side adores you, but not for how you look, no, it’s more to do with those faint traces of innocence that come through the armour you wear so devoutly, and how they dazzle despite your best efforts of concealment. I wore armour of my own for many years. Never let anything touch me, never let anything through. But one day I begun to dismantle it, and although it now hurts to feel, to feel is the only way there is. Maybe one day you’ll slip that armour off and let me get close to you. Maybe you’ll see what it’s like to live within and not without. I am a weak man, and yet the energy in my fingers allows me to bend the rules. When it taps into that which tries to remain unseen, what occurs really is quite naughty, but it all means nothing without your love and the energy of your own that you keep locked up. If you can’t match my gaze and let me know who you are, then this whole thing means nothing. If you won’t let me peel back your flesh and reach inside, then we will become dust long before we were meant to.