“That was stupid.”“I guess it was,” Sean said.The flower lady said, “You’re going to have to get roses at a minimum. You might even need t...o dozen roses.”“I’m going to include a poem,” Sean said. “Women love poetry.”“Which poem?” the flower lady asked.“I’m writing it as soon as I get home,” Sean said.The flower lady said, “You might need three dozen roses.”“I’m great poet,” Sean said.“Let me guess ... it is going to start with ... Roses are red.”“How did you know?” Sean asked looking at her in. Some of us directly possess, slithering up inside our woman, controlling them from cunt to naval, wiggling as tiny incarnations of us, embedded and inserted. But we prefer them raw. We relish in the sacrifice. We make the friend, the mother, the lover bring us another. We feed on their torment, their confliction, their shame as they cajole and capture our next victim, desperate and needing our touch. We gouge ourselves on fear, letting the emotion drench our new collections as we tie the girl. More

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