The Mirror

I do not blink.
I do not break.
I am silver sin, a silent ache.
I drink in filth, I swallow them whole,
Their ruin, their rapture, their loss of control.

She crashes against me breathless and bare,
Her chest, a fevered brand on my glare.
Fog blooms wild where her gasps collide,
Each moan is a mark she cannot hide.

He looms behind her, grinning, slow,
His teeth at her nape, dragging low.
A hand on her throat, a fist in her hair,
He forces her gaze… to see, to stare.

She watches herself wrecked and obscene,
Her lips parted, flushed, unclean.
Her thighs tremble as his fingers tease,
Tracing secrets, taunting pleas.

He pulls her back, makes her sit,
Spreads her wide, savouring it.
Her gaze is frenzied, feral, and lost,
Watching herself unravel, tossed.

She whimpers, melts, and rides him raw,
A silhouette drenched in moonlight’s maw.
His hands are firm and tight,
Driving her recklessly into the night.

Her back curves, her cries ignite,
He grits his teeth, grips her waist,
Drags her past the edge of grace,
Then tossed her ruined, traced.

She lands like a tangled sprawl,
But he is not done; no, not yet,
Lust like war, hunger like debt.
He wrenches her up off the sheets,
Pins her flush where shadows meet.

The walls know nothing.
But I do.

I see her hands raised, wrists caught anew,
Surrender carved in skin,
A plea, a promise, a game, a sin.

At first, he worships with kisses sweet,
Mouths at her pulse, licks down her heat.
 

But hunger is cruel, patience thin,
He bites, and she shrieks, while he takes her in.

Her moans are his, swallowed whole,
A prayer, a hymn, a loss of control.
He lifts her, hands bruised, strong,
Pins her deep where she belongs.

I taste the tremor before the bone snaps,
An earthquake’s rage, the trap it traps.
His knuckles grind, his lust a fire,
Her pulse beneath, a dying choir.

Thrusts relentless, breaking, raw,
Her head thrown back, his gasping jaw.
Her name spills from lips unchained,
A beast unbound, a god untamed.

The walls stay silent.
 

But I?
I shatter inside.

Because if I could moan, if I could break,
I’d scream beneath each thrust they take.
If glass could throb, if silver could ache,
I’d shatter for them, burn in their wake.

But mirrors do not beg nor fall.
I only watch.
I take it all.