I am going through a dry spell, words-wise,
I am going through a wet spell in the flesh.
I am angling for an invitation to the bones pushing painfully close, hard against your stretched skin-
I am finding wildly-welted bruises across my ass cheeks, upper thighs, the backs of my knees.
Your kneecaps knock me into oblivion. I am a lost missile, a pile of the hot, soft and pulsating. I am seeking a burial that delves into the deep of you.
I am constantly heartbroken with how much I love him. I tell him to come to me so I can tear him into pieces. He comes to me. I say, here, hurt me. I say, I could cut you open right now to crawl around your warmly loyal beating heart. He says, I never mean to. He says, you would. I wouldn’t put it past you.
I always thought I would be the martyr, not the murderer. Until I met you, I never knew I could be both.
I’m happy with our inertia.
Beyond the brilliance of the subtle twitches of your arms in somnolence,
There is some universal language written in your eyes
Some ecosystem of beauty
in that lovely head of yours