I used to think this kind of hate could only be melancholic
You're everything I need and I hate you for it
Such a warm pocket we cut
With knives we brought ourselves
Taken by one another
Blood given, the influx
A ball of heat, wanting!
My dear Oliver
You go on for a few hundred miles of I-55
Carekess hate, explicable lover
I think you'll hurt to let go of in some months
Now
Sunday
This week, our Thursday
Was magical
Cloth over my eyes
I'm sedated
You drive off
I'm elated
Writhing
I'd told my body to savour this
(who knew when it would come again)
But everything was a rush
Fufillment never comes fast enough
Your own hands never cut deep enough
But my Olive's did.
They sliced into me and
Left me on that coffee table
With the marlboros I considered stealing before we fucked
He was a virigin to me
I was a virgin to him
I'm happy it went so well
I'd wanted composure
My desire ripped the decorum like meat
A-loose, a primal me floating just above hell
Everything I'd written when I was 7
Angry at how easy this was
Who knew you were waiting underneath me all this time
Who knew a touch so sweet could soothe me
He said he wouldn't finish early and he didn't
His hands were soft but heavy enough to hold me down
His body was close
And reaching unending
My hips could not rock enough
I searched for a viable beach and found him, my sweet white wine olive, washed a-shore but still intact
My loves' hands gave him to me
I did not hesitate when I claimed him as mine. m
YOU ARE READING
An Enigma Is Too Much For A Cat To Eat
Poetrypoetry from the raw heart of a teenage girl. I wrote this poetry collection throughout my junior year of high school, when so much change was underneath the sun's aura. In and out of depression, in and out of the psych ward, I survived the first ha...
