Heat

The dogs of Rome are howling, and
I've had enough of love, that impostor of purity,
that imitation of selflessness that is possessiveness in disguise
I want my freedom.
The dogs of Rome are howling, and
There's nothing simpler than lust, nothing easier than
making a man want you: a look, a touch, a drink, a whisper
the deed is done.
The dogs of Rome are howling, and
Byron once said "the merit of a kiss is in it's length."
I'm inclined to disagree- the merit of a kiss should be in
the waves of heat it can inspire.
The dogs of Rome are howling, and
We are like coals in the darkness; lost almost to death,
grey and pallid, surrounded by the ashes of our former selves and yet
we awaken once more to brilliance,
this is sublime.
The dogs of Rome are howling, and
I put on my doe eyes and plush lips and pinked cheeks,
practice smiles and laughs, slide on earrings and high heeled shoes
and swear that I will never again
submit my soul to save my body.
The dogs of Rome are howling, and so am I.