Crimson petals scatter,

a trail of desolation
leading back

to the crumpled bed,
the torn sheets,

and the sweet, sickly scent
of despair.

Lacquered nails
rake down pale flesh,

leaving scarlet welts,

crimson blooms
growing more vivid

against the fading pallor.

Bloodied lips
murmur pleas for mercy,

yet crave more suffering,
more pain,

each lash of punishment,
each piercing stab,

an ecstatic release,

a feverish communion.

Beneath the thorny crown
of shame,

a secret garden blossoms,

lush
and ripe,

dripping with forbidden fruit
and viscous sap,

an oasis of perverse pleasure
in the wasteland.

Crimson petals drift
on the decaying breeze,

a macabre wreath
marking the grave of innocence.

Yet within the rotting corpse,
new life stirs,

phallic tendrils
reaching for the sun.