distance (part eighteen)

I am to the point of being corrupted, that I feel like corrupting something myself.
Spreading the disease. Infecting you. Patient zero touching patient one.
Pressing my palm into the skin on your chest. I mean to push you away, but you resist like a steel door, like a mountain against the wind.
Time may give me a way to wear you down, though.

Why do I get this nagging feeling that you'll meet her, and like her?

All I want is a bunch of kissing, and to know that you want more, without me having to give it to you.

What makes me so evil against you?

I could be the devil against your deity, the Lola to your Joe.
I could tilt my chin up, give your eyes the sight of my jawline, give your mind the desire to pepper my neck with hot breaths.
I could be the madness to your sanity, the yes to your no.
I could give you a bite of the apple, and hold it delicately, with my delicate violin fingers, out of your reach, make you stretch.
I could be the snake to your Eve, turn my voice down low,
      show you a me you didn't know.
I could play you the nightmusic, I could sway you. I could deal you into the gamble; gentlemen, place your bets.
I could make you whisper, "Oh,"
      nearly breathless.

You were never an object of affection to ignite such desires in me,
      but maybe because the heat of the flame had yet to melt the wax.

Knowing you, and the way you are,
You are the worst thing to spark such a want in me,
A want that makes feel like scrubbing my skin clean,
      sometimes.

-Dana Winter