His fingers remain tangled with my hair,
Pulling ruthlessly and ‘claiming’ his love;
I struggle but he doesn’t seem to care,
He serenely claims, ‘Darling, it’s my love.’

He stumbles again and I help him stand,
But it’s the glistening lust that stands firm;
He proceeds further and raises his hand,
With his body stiff and eyes stern.

I stumble and stand, seemingly scared;
He sits there and unsure he utters, ‘Let’s dine.’
I think as I eat, ‘It seems he never cared,’
‘Maybe it’s not him, it’s just the wine!’

His eyes are an unusual blue,
Glossy blue- shining with lust;
He still insists, ‘I love you,’
And then my mind swirls into dust.

He eyes me from head to toe,
I feel his burning glare;
He mouths, ‘It’s my love that I show’,
I think, ‘It is mere lust. Love doesn’t stare.’

The next moment I’m covered in scars,
I recall his words- ‘I’ll never hurt you’;
I shiver as my own tears burn the scars,
He says, ‘Oh how much I love you!’

Then he mumbles casually, ‘I love you,’
He utters again, ‘You are mine.’
I say, ‘Love doesn’t claim but lust does. This is true.
It’s not your love, darling, it’s the wine.’