lamb and lion lay together like driftwood on the fringe of rapids. the lamb was always told that curiosity killed the cat, and was left feeling misinformed

as the mane concealed his face, the fluffy lining being ripped out. like clouds stained pink by a setting sun and the early beams of a harvest moon, it reflects the deed.

innocence is a dying breed.

the virgins are deflowered like eggs plucked from a bird’s nest, and their dignity is never returned. i’m told of the damage inflicted. how first love had burned for them.

the inner lining seeps out and stains the cotton. this is the lion’s share. some of them only feel better knowing they broke the hymen first.

have you ever seen how they almost smile as they lick the flesh from between their paws?