I watch his eyes for the things he may not know how to tell me but I need to know are there.
Bubbling up in his blood. Prickling all over his body like pebbles of hard rain on a stone gray ocean. I wear a tiny bit of lace, light the candles by the mirror like maybe I’ll be saved, anointed, forgiven.
I want to be soft and him to be savage tonight.
Fuck poetry. Poetry is murderous. Poetry tears you into shreds, makes you beg. If it’s worth anything, it kills. Makes you watch. Makes you a witness. Makes you a voyeur and a spy. Poetry is utter devastation. A haunted kind of life.
It has been a long time since I formed my mouth around a word like a vengeful god binds his wrath into a fist. Since I kissed you like a burning bruise.
Let you drown in the searing ache of wet rose madness for a while.
Now all your thoughts of me are swollen, ripe, and red.
All the color has drained from the head.
I like the way your jaw juts out from your thick neck. I like the way you force the taste onto my tongue.
My love is a brutally beautiful thing. Lavish with a suffocating kind of attention.
I watch his eyes as he does it. I watch like a snow white lamb for the glistening of teeth.
Watch him fuck all the pain out of me.
Take it. Cut the lights and skin my knees. Poetry is reckless. Poets are nothing but bottomless pits of need.