You think I can’t hear you
standing next to my bed
breathing over my face on
moonless nights when
storm clouds mask the
stars
or smell your breath
washing across my cheeks
the scent of marjoram and
myrrh
never peek from beneath
my sheets to see your
red eyes glow, the
only light in the
room.
Are you so foolish
to think I sleep through
the moments when
you lift my sheets and
crawl beside me with
your tentacles caressing
my thighs and my
breasts?
Incubus,
you are ancient
compelled by the rules
of an ancient culture
how long before you
finally unleash your
staff push apart
my legs and discover
to your horror
that I never underwent
the last stage of my
surgery?
