Puppeteer

Unzip, unfold; wear me.
But where me, I, exist, dances beyond your sultry manipulation. By you I may be worn, war and warranted, but remember as you waltz, dripping in my beauty, harbored under my personage, that you’re the imposter.
You’re the puppeteer, intravenously nourishing my entirety with weakness.
You’re the malevolent, searing every contour of my constitution with your brand.
You’re the pariah, clawing at my countenance, desiring, cursing, and screaming a whispered requisition for infinite possession of this, my temple.
A forked-tongue does not an appropriation make.
You’ve lost accommodation; I’ve lost interest.