I am a little less
After each visit, each night;
Something is left behind,
Or has
Been stolen -
What he does with it,
I hope to never know.
Crumbs of my soul,
He must
Consume them -
Any feeling, thought,
Humanity,
It seems to fuel
His depravity, that blazing
Lust,
That body;
Those voracious hands,
The speed at which
They move,
He moves,
Within me.
Rough lips to pale skin,
I wonder
If he seeks to take a bite
Out of me,
Straight for
The jugular -
I almost wish
That he would: almost.
He is cold to the touch,
Warmed only
By my flesh
Against his own.
Stubble grates my skin,
And I start
To think about
What he does with the pieces
Of me
That he steals away -
What if he should have every piece;
Would he
Put me back together again?
I leave as less
Than I was before,
And yet there is a bliss
To this reduced capacity, to the
Throbbing
Of my body,
Of the eagerness to please.
I melt into those gluttonous hands -
I do not want
To be put back together.
YOU ARE READING
Refraction.
PoetrySo many aspects, colours and themes make up our experiences. Truly, is anything entirely good or entirely bad? Upon weighing up the positives and negatives of the past, do we not admit that even tragedy is- in a twisted sort of way- advantageous? O...
