Slithering Dreams

She knows I can never be,
the man in dream she often sees.
Her touch, like tattered gloves in rain:
Warm but wanting, yearn in vain. 
Her nails like crescent moon at night.
She savors on the darker side.
Ploughing through my thick dark thews,
a skin deep scar with crimson hues.
Light trickle down my endless pores,
hairs dancing to her overtures.
Whispers, rustling like a rattle snake;
in cold blood, venom, she injects.
She knows who I often see,
dreaming of someone but me.