how far would you let me go? how
deeply would you let me delve?

you might be tempted but
you don’t know
the thoughts i have
about you and the tip of
my very sharpest knife

and how pretty you
would look in red

how flush my
sharpness
would make your cheeks and
your veins and
your heart

the woe that is sleek inside the
softer parts of my skill
and the gorgeous, most sacred
metallic inner parts of you

you are bleeding on
porcelain statues of gods
and somehow that
seems nothing
short of completely appropriate

zeus and i share a bottle of
wine in your memory

your lips have melted iron

tasted the wicked, subtle, penny-bitter condensation
off of my skin
and within myself
within that place

i’m so sorry that it wasn’t the
smooth cold of porcelain
you’re used to
but i think part of you likes that
it’s not

you want me to cut up your tongue, just a little

that’s all you’ve ever wanted
someone to love you
fiercely. uncontrollably.

is this really what you wanted?
and to think i hold so much back, so tightly,
for both your sake and mine.

my sweet darling it is simply pandemonium

there is a calmness at the top of a mountain–
the sweet sugar dew doesn’t
in of itself have a taste but somehow
the temperature makes it seem that way

there is a ruby mixture in the coldness
of the winter
on the snow
on the silver
cutting through a violent white

but i pretend it’s ink. i tell
you it’s ink so you don’t
ask any more questions

just look at me, dear
look at the folds in my
fingertips and know that
i am real

i am skin and bone
flesh and blood
fire and water
i am whatever
you need me to be

i am a hypocrite

for a long time i wanted that word tattooed
somewhere on my body and i still do,
i think.

i cherish my ability to value the
wellbeing of others above my own…
that’s not why i do it
but that’s how it seems, isn’t it?

doesn’t my own lack of motivation
seem so **** selfless?

hypocrites only run into trouble
when they make it obvious.
for some reason, not heading your
own advice makes people very
upset with you.

i do it because
when the fall leaves break
off the trees and there’s
crimson on the sidewalk,
crimson dripping from the palms
of our hands…

well, the winner would be
whoever threw the first punch.

i will learn to taste the honeydew
and pretend to like it

i will taste the honeysuckle
and not have to pretend

i will feel grass in my hands and
say it is the best of life

and not the woman i need between my teeth

i am not ferocious, not demanding, not unwise,
simply at peace.

i am the sparkler to the firework
the star to the sun
the kitten to the lion.

but are these not all one and the same?

i see dandelion seeds and
though they are weeds i will
watch their dance anyway

i dive into agua dulce
wishing to be stardust instead of glitter
but glitter is certainly better than ash

under the water i have a moment to myself
where it
takes my screams into pockets of air
floating up without consequence

escaping my body at last in
a beautiful anonymity

may watchful eyes devour my body
unmarked, unblemished, devoid.

and they will watch as i make myself perfect

…but if the powdered sugar somehow melts off of my skin
i beg you to look away
for your sake and mine

we have been blessed with womanhood.
not in a biological sense, nor a societal one,
but a blessing, due to our values.

no man could ever make my blood so darkly crimson
make my heart race, beat
in places within me for which
i should be so condemned.

i live for the subtle pain
of lying down once
you've torn my back to shreds–

it's the ghost of you keeping me on my toes.

i want the wine to hit you like it hits me
like it makes me want you
what it makes me want
to do to you

the way the black and grey lines
make your face in my mind

and the screaming color which
you actually are

and on occasion–i am taken to
that place
where my clinical proudness
(and therefore, reserve)
is gone

and it doesn't matter except
that you are mine and
i simply want to make that
very ******* clear

every time i look at you
i want you to know
that i am thinking about

the most carnal viciousness
and how it might
feel to be wanted
by you
how it might feel to
have you screaming
my name into my neck

how it might feel
sweet god among women
in my bed

let me tear apart the stitches in
your skirt

my dream
is to not have to sacrifice
one for the other–

as in,
you wanting me
for me taking you.