A budding writer's collection

The Blooming Of Poison Ivy

Hatred is the honey in my veins,

The organs devour my contempt for you

One look at you,

My hands crave to frame your neck

Oh, taunting matador, 

There's no need to goad me

These horns pray for your downfall

This hatred makes me live,

But its intensity chokes the reason out of me

Each time our ends meet

A fleeting brush of our fingertips,

And ergo, devilish dreams dance beneath this countenance

I hate you so,

But I crave you more

Do I hate you,

Or, do I hate that your beauty isn't mine yet?

That your intellect isn't spent over verses for my attributes?

I hate you more

Every time you smile at me,

Feigning ignorance of these desires I harbor for you

So loathsome is your devious trickery,

As your hands reclaim their place,

At my waist

So innocent, so familiar,

So forgiving,

Flooding with clemency for my failings

These red fingernails dig deeper,

Cling onto you longer,

They grieve the ephemerality of each touch,

The contemptuous craving is hardly doused,

Even when the bodies couldn't be more close

Ah, the moans of pleasure,

This resentment relishes your cries of contentment

Transient as they are,

Longing pools in the eyes

Its drops quenching your ache's thirst

As each clandestine meeting comes to a halt

Why do you deny this hatred?

This hatred that brings us closer

Each passing day

This hatred that gives meaning to each sunrise,

This passionate fury that is uncloaked

Under the veil of every nightfall,

As the darkness houses its secrecy,

And it can come undone,

To devour the flames.