The Lioness of Dusk
She still lingers
The taste of her rancid mouth lingers. Like morning breath following the cheap cigar of late-evening vices, her stench clings to your palette. Her thick scent manifests from your pores, still swollen from the night before. The taste haunts your senses, but you can’t even say her name.
A moment in time, her memory never forgotten, now sewn into your very being. She took you, disadvantaged. Owned you, as if for granted. Respect vanished, fleeing like smoke from a fire. No thought for who you were, what you wanted. Your body sustenance for a succubus, cuisine for a night nymph. A vapor of vanity feeds, abandoning the carcass after her fill.
Wasting away; your leftover substance like a dead gazelle before the queen of kings. Her cravings drive her hunt; lotus-eating woman turned carnivorous beast. Though you didn’t know it, she carried your bones to her den, dropping them in darkness.
After the coarse clasp of her sensuous lips came the fluttering of her hand. A haughty thoughtfulness of your worthlessness. A blade glistened in the moonlight, then your body grew cold. She took and took, never once dropping her hands. She spat on you before extorting your heart.
The taste of her rancid mouth — blood-stained teeth, washed only by fresher meat. Your spoils now spoiled, your metal turned rust, your soul discarded by the Lioness of Dusk.
