And now I call you to pray - Exemplary

[Pollock]

I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray

He finds fragility like hers elicits a reaction like a savage hydra in him.
Many-headed. Many-toothed. Lust by many names, for many things.

If she is a windflower in the forest (soft, supple, delicate and dainty – yawning open for some sun), he is the one that spills guts at her feet and expects thanks for the feast. He does not wield flesh gently. He was never taught how to. He was taught how to appraise every nook and cranny for its susceptibility to bruises. He was taught rough touches and mistakes them all for violence’s foreplay.
It gets the blood pumping.

(—hips are like altars for his sin, he has found. Each thrust a flagellation. Atonement. But it weighs heavy on him, it reminds him that he is a seed from a bad apple. He carries it with him and rives skulls with it. 
If he could cleanse like she could, he might. But the salt water has never been a baptism. It had taken their blood and asked for more of the same.

The cold had not cleansed him, either. He had proven himself plainly profaned. He had purged any goodness in him that day.)

So, when she speaks her words sparks a chain of electric pulses up his back. They whisper to one another, messengers playing telephone until he is sure he wants nothing more than to dirty his horns again. He smiles, shifting his weight away from her (hips are altars, but everything else betrays the female body for what it has always be to him – flesh sworn to carelessness and lechery; cruelty), “isn’t it.”

“Horrible.” He looks at her, examining those dancer’s lines. 
More and more, he finds he can appreciate beauty. Only he appreciates it for what it could be. What they could make it, together.
He wouldn’t even need to break her, if he thought she’d look best bent.

He can separate the flesh from the woman (literally and figuratively), make peace with the thing that gnashes for them inside of him if it suited his needs, but he cannot help when he is presented with such fine things. 
Dark dancers. Blue mysteries. Teal lips. Green ferocity.

“Such is life.” He might have been elated, if she choose she share with him her fear of showing emotions. He is nothing if not a giver. He could help her with that.
There is time to discover.

“You are?”

“Oh. My manners. I’m Pollock.”

POLLOCK
the gift giver