Title

Sunday, December 12, 2010

I just want you to call me amazing.
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Poi-Son-Us

Thursday, December 9, 2010

His poison has made its official entrance into my body. My blood stream. My flesh. Mind. I can’t resist him now. I tried. I said no. He lied. So I succumbed. To the graphics scripted deep into his being. I trace. With one finger. Sometimes two. While he lies asleep, I watch him breathe. Vibrating air, seeping through spaced lips. It’s cold. Bitter cold. Not the temperature. Bitter cold, are my feelings. I refuse to love. I rather to have lost & to not have loved at all.

They watch, with knowing eyes. As I stroll on by. 1, 2, 3 , 4. Two knew. Too known. His past. Past life. Lust. Adoration & time. All laid out for the world to see, yet I still know… Nothing. My punishment waits, near the center of the Massachusetts Queen Bed. I tried to go AWOL, but my reprimand strictly anticipates my arrival.

Scolding, in its finest state. Laid down to rest, beneath a brown sculpture. Whispers reach my left ear speaking of obedience & manner. Un-related lips meet. Both wet, gripping, dripping. The Brown-Quartzite laced river begins its steady rock. Tremors take over, like land larva-awakened. Hot air balloons let loose with quiet, soft, swift wind. A rotating pulverization, the best yet. Minced kitty meat is what we’ll call it. Hands hold 25.5 inches, comfortably & safely. Knees pressed so hard circles leave their imprint. It’s his turn. Marc Jacobs. He came for the ride. He hangs around my neck, tightly. Both MJ & his lower arms. Hair strands lost ‘tween tan cotton waves. Red, brown. Red.

Legs intertwined as I feel a bulge from behind. Lips to neck. Breast to back. Webbed arms entangled.

I don’t think there was one moment when bodies let us free. Not even the P O I S O N could keep you away from me.

BOMPF*