There is no man in me, only lion.

I bare my teeth and you can see the startled wideness of your eyes in my gleaming canines.

But you surprise me, you do not back away.

You draw close, and with a finger that should tremble, you trace the curve and cut of my jaw.

I do not close my eyes when you press your lips to mine. But the pressure of your pomegranate mouth makes me want to.

My hands are twisted throughout your hair, echoing the pull of my whips against your flesh.

I thought you were frail, delicate like the flowers you wore braided in your hair.

I thought you would break beneath me, an ornamental looking glass.

But like the plants you coax from the stale earth

You bend.

You bend, but you do not break. And when again you spring up, petals torn but not wilted,

I bow my head.

And from it you take my obsidian crown.

It sits far better against your brow then it ever did mine.