my unrelenting hands
would drag you to athens
to deny you
the sight of the acropolis

i would lash you
to the most spartan of chairs
in a fire lit room
and churn butter
in a low cut dress
sweaty and writhing
in front of you

i would withhold apple pie fresh from the oven

i would stop singing as you entered the room

if i saw you on the other side of the street
i would smile and tell you
i love you
moving soundless lips
die inside
and keep walking

if i am to have no peace
you get no sugar on your spoon