A lady in black holds herself up, eyes wide, wet, wild, the blood throbbing in her sex ruptures the sky into vast pulsing waves through webs of liquid stars, spinning in endless expansion. She is the universe groping desire from every angle. She is the thin movement of air, she is the legs of the needs inside you suspended, withering figures tangled in trees.
Pleasure, pain, writhing, and you on your knees. The night grows hungry for itself.
I play with the words and let them seduce me, slender light and the pale gray shadows of bodies on the wind, blown from the corners of my buried mind: paper dolls shaped like me but someone forgot to cut out the bones. Skeletons dressing in my skin, a row of street lamps exploding in slow motion; shattered and exposed we are made to collect our own pieces, float like angels on the tops of bare trees.
The shakes of restlessness would eat you alive so we carve hearts in the sidewalk with pocketknives and promise to walk until the end of time.
Every footstep interrupts the pattern, the world is dying in our punctured hands as we become reluctant symbols of the future of those who don’t believe we’ll make it.
The cold and the pavement and you’re getting tired and the smoke between your teeth is the taste of orgasm in mute. Sound is a numbing warp through miles of ocean water and I am dreaming of the way it is in dreams, running, running without gaining ground.
When you were with me and understood everything, I kept still behind the glass.
Images of prey, hummingbird wings in wet mouths, cigarettes in broken fingers, sliding like phantoms on my evening wall. All day, all day, the hush of silence is a naked room and a miniature wooden chair, a supple rain shower and your lips searching me, opening secrets I am too afraid to speak. My womb is a beautiful moonlight garden in waiting, touching is red velvet gloves wearing hands and nothing is protected.
The night tempts a sky of pink ivory and words are the only food. I am swallowed by the sunset in your sea salt eyes. I burn with lust for the way you train my eager skin. But I won’t touch, and I won’t move, and I will trade the madness for a chance to breathe you in.
The brutal soak of heavy slicing rain aches to break itself open within me, this looming clench of an immaculate crush, this clenched torment seems to spin fast like cyclones gasping for wind. Everything I’ve now become is yours; the satin lick of blind infection has to be enough.
As the storms move in, flashes of lightning beneath my skin, I caress myself: defiant, blistering, illuminated. Raindrops slashed across the glistening membrane of a soul in her triumphant birth.
Pain is savage ritual bleeding, the final break in the gruesome night long screaming, a restless dawn that needs my love waits in the hands of life to receive me.
I am the howling and the healing.
This mourning that enfolds me, exposes me. Water, soil, seed.
Beauty is a mouth on my mouth like butterflies stitching themselves to faces in the dark. Strange stimulation the way we unfold: this is what it is to bloom.
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Allison Marie Conway 