The blood slowly pours down your legs.
Your thighs face little more than a trickle of rain.
The pain you feel entices his pleasure and you refuse to scream.
To hold on to this death within you're afraid to show.
Yet what shall you do when the laundry needs done?
These white satin sheets, bled from the devil,
ripping your life into his clouds.
The heavens shine brightly overhead,
as they watch in comic relief.
