There’s a knock at the door.

It’s the secret knock.

But he said he’d never return.

Do I make him wait?

Look under the door for a sign of light,

a flicker of life?

Do I make him beg,

call and text again?

Already swollen,

he touches himself with one hand,

holds the phone with the other.

I don’t make him wait-

even a second kills me.

I don’t let him beg;

beggars get no mercy.

I want to see him,

flushed and hungry,

wielding his power.

Should I turn him away?

Lock each lock,

lead us into the fray?

No.

I need to see him.

I am burning,

already moaning,

aching to be breached.

My insides flutter.

If I speak, I’ll stutter.

He does this to me each time.

I unravel. I open.

He enters like dominance itself.

His secret knock.

My barriers vanish.