Sickened by her touch, her lips against my skin.
The thought of trailing in the wake of many other men.
But on I press in spite of this determined to appease
And sate her damn desire, though this siren’s my disease.
Afterward I leave without a single word of parting;
Sickened by my weakness, the self-loathing she’s imparting.
Dwelling on my sickness and the knowledge I’ve been used.
Knowing I should stay away, hope that I’ll refuse.
But I know better…