grief.
'I remember those red nights, where we devoured one another, insatiably hungry.'
and if a woman isn't cherry ripe
enough she is thrown away as a
pale and bloated version of her
mother. if she isn't tight enough,
if her makeup doesn't cover the
blemishes right and her legs don't
part enough to cover the scars she's
better off dead.
her face is falling off by the
second and all you can do is
slap it, you're really sorry this
time right? she's only an angel
when she's under your light.
your fingers up inside of her
feel like fingers down her throat,
everything is fine in heaven
but she'll never get to know.
sickly sweet stomach ache in
the morning, your sweat and cologne
covers her sweet fragile smell and
the in between of her legs is
wet and she feels like maybe
crying would make it easier
for you. you like the pain,
but not her grief or her sadness.
she's a friend and your shoulder
to cry on, and to rip apart at the
seams with your teeth, your sick
fantasies falling under her tongue
because tonight she is your little
girl, the one who was crying on
the balcony as her father stormed
out into the rain again on a tuesday
at midnight.
you can taste the
medicine, you can feel her fucked
up thighs and the blades she still
stuck beneath but you don't care.
you lie to her once you're done,
kissing the scars and telling her
she's made from the sky.
as you sleep soundly feeling like
a true, real man. she is watching,
she is counting your eyelashes and
she's trying not to sink into your
skin with her teeth. she loves you
so much she couldn't help but
grieve who she was before this
was all she knew.
little lamb lost in the headlight.
she watches you breathe, listens
to the small noises you make and
thinks she's home, and everything is
okay.
she's wet and warm inside and she's
moaning and crying outside, she's begging for more more more.
it's the only time she feels useful.
and her hair is in her face and
she's on the train and the creature
they call "men" are drawn all over the
walls, staring at her like dogs in heat.
she just wants to go home and pull
her hair off and her skeleton out.
and what did she do to deserve this?
to be doomed the moment she was born, soft breasts and hips and legs
and lips. femininity and identity are
a battle until the death, and to be a
woman is to die. but she won't allow it.
she'll curse you one day, stick her
cigarette in your eye and smoke your
flesh, call you sweet things and have you under her again. you're all she
wants, you sweet sweet boy.
but a woman is nothing if she
doesn't have a heart, so can any
sex truly be meaningless?
or so you say.
she's crazy
idiotic
drama starter
too much
and you must leave
before she dies.
or before she tries.
because when she is closing
her eyes and her fingers meet
her own warmth, she is thinking
of you and she can't help but
mourn, her sensuality at a loss
and still ripe in your room.
give it back.
