He whispers their name like a prayer,
says it carefully, beautifully as if it were the names of the goddesses.
He bathes them in praise
but is drowning them in holy water.
Repeating their sacred name
over and over and over,
blessed so that he can say he’s become enlightened
once he’s received the holy communion of their body
on his lips.

He’ll call them royals.
Dressed in purple
lifting them to their highest class,
placing them on a pedestal
sitting them, perching them delicately
on the throne held up by their womanly duties,
their feminine expectations.
He’ll call them his queens but in the end
he will commit treason against their realm.

Suddenly they’ll become a witch,
a hypnotist.
He says they enchant him.
Trance him with how they dress, move, breathe.
He’ll create signs of black magic in their eyes,
rituals in their steps,
and chants on their tongue.
Blaming his actions on theirs,
“they made me” he says
so he’ll have an excuse to curse them back.

I’ve got splinters in my smile from where
supporting beams were yanked away
lips tumbling to the ground.
Crashing into a pile of
cracked words and rotting promises
that they whispered into my mouth.

Come along and walk past the *******,
compiled from pieces of frontal lobes and broken vocal cords
unable to ever remember the vibrations
that once worked as a fireplace heating the soul.

But I invite you to rebuild.
Be my master builder.

Terminally ill,
infected with lust
curiosity and nerves.
Spreading like a virus,
your words crawl deep
into my veins.
Tongue numb,
lungs struggle
in the midst of this plague.

Embedded in my marrow,
festering in my throat
enclosed by bones,
guarded by ribs

The ache won’t leave, and I’m starting to wonder,
if my chest cavity is better off empty.

Be gentle with her
for the words of others have never done much
but break her esteem.
Caress her undesirable sides,
her spirit breaking thighs,
her disappointing arms
as you would the body of a thin woman.
Be patient with her,
tell her she is beautiful
because for ages,
society, peers, family
have treated her as though she was a blemish of humanity.

Trace the stretch marks along her sides with care
for she is always doing the opposite.
Treat her body with the respect and tenderness
that she yearns for.
Be patient with her,
take her in, savour her, swallow her naked body whole.

Do not get grumpy with her when she pulls her shirt down
during the sweaty collision of your tongues
for she is only trying to comfort herself.
Be patient with her,
instead whisper ‘you are beautiful’ into her skin and
leave kisses of assurance on her stomach.

While she kisses you
let her search for motive.
Expose your good intentions.
She will dust your lips for other girl’s prints
for lack of understanding why you’d choose her.
Be patient with her. It is not your fault.
It is not that she does not trust you.
it is that her soul is laced with disbelief and apprehension.

Listen to her when she voices her worries out loud.
Listen as her voice shakes and she confides in you.
Reassure her, be patient with her.
Wrap your words around her;
create a blanket of trust to keep her warm.

Let’s pretend these sheets are empty
and that I’ve died or something equally as irreversible.
Flown away with the last of the sparrows,
or carried by an autumn breeze.
Perhaps pulled into the depths of a surging wave,
or lost in the darkness of a grotto.
Running an old dirt path,
where thoughts of you cannot follow
and try to plead my return.

In years from then,
when I’ve forgotten the feeling of sunlight on my skin,
and when your prints finally leave my lips,
I’ll rest in peace,
knowing I saved you.

This addiction 
has the worst withdrawals.
They leave you feeling
completely empty and 
alone
until you get
the next hit.

Shaking in anticipation,
preparing for the next fix.
Face forward, inhale.
Hear your heart race through my head.
Pounding anxiously,
waiting.

Finally,
the collision creates a moment of pure ecstasy
in my addict body.
Pressed in close
to confuse your heartbeat
and the motion of your lungs.

The worst withdrawls,
but the best high.

Tears swelling behind the dam of my heart
still strong to Mother Nature’s abuse,
but fractured by years and
cracked by hands.

One day,
when my dam-of-a-heart is attacked,
beat down and broken,
when it floods this town with woe,
I swear, I swear,
I would find your prints branded on the
handle of a hammer.