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EmilyBatdorf Jan 27
I could write erotica
Words flushed with heat
And lust
A bare trace of plot
Sliding through the lines
like soft skin on silk sheets.

I could paint pictures
with sultry poses,
long limbs entwined in a battle of flesh,
pictures to bring a tingle,
a shiver dancing across your skin.

I could whisper salacious stories
with my lips just above your ear,
hot breath and a teasing lilt,
testing the boundaries of self-control.

I could pass along this poem,
lay forth my cards,
exposed provocatively on the table,
making my intentions known.
EmilyBatdorf Nov 2020
New perfume in the air, sweeter than I normally like
the sweetness cannot erase the memory of that night.
Beer music bodies drink music night bodies music drink you
I can’t wear those clothes anymore, not the perfume, not the makeup.
I want to forget it all, the slideshow that starts playing on repeat.
I want to feel something, I feel numb.

I want to cut, rid my skin of your memory and replace it with my own
I want to stop eating, until the starvation clears me out, makes me new
I want to eat everything, so I feel some semblance of full.
I want to do something to forget that time with you.

Eyes follow me in the street, they’re not yours, but my body doesn’t care
heart quickens, breath shakes, I am afraid.
Anger replaces fear, bottled up until I just want to scream
LEAVE ME ALONE
I walk to the school, to the market, and I don’t dress up for you

My homework sits out but I can’t do it today, maybe tomorrow,
I said that yesterday but the numbness won’t go away,
I feel detached, uncaring.
I need to cry, to break things, to heal and yet I’m stuck in this chair,
this one room.
I feel dead inside, remind myself to eat, to drink water, to sleep, to move.
Sweet perfumes lingers in the air, begging me to start over, to forget, to walk away.
But with it on, I still think of you.
EmilyBatdorf Nov 2020
wine, in perfect measure,
is a bridge from tortured mind
to blank page.
Too little and the words
get stuck in my fingers.
Flowing too freely,
and I am heavy,
lost to the power of thought.
wine, my translator divine,
I am set free
to speak my truth and fall back,
satisfied.
EmilyBatdorf Nov 2020
Sometimes I feel poetic
when I’m really just in pain.
I write to get it out,
like a soothing fall of rain.
My words have been my safety
a way to keep things clear
to work through dark emotions
and drive away the fear.
Here is where I’m safe
where I can move through it all
and that’s how I make progress
no matter how small.
EmilyBatdorf Nov 2020
it’s a blatant lie,
deception in the smoothness of its texture,
empty of flavor,
a “substitute” for chocolate,
though it doesn’t come close.
It’s the cake of choice for romantics,
the red of passion
encased in sweetness.
red and white,
passion and purity,
a walking contradiction,
done up with sprinkles.
EmilyBatdorf Nov 2020
kiss me to draw out the poison
of those who came before.
Run your fingers on my skin
to erase greedy hands and stolen strokes.
Possess my body,
entrance me with your mouth,
with hungry lips and burning hands.
I’ll rise to meet you,
let my skin meld to yours,
until we’re bound together to meet
the ugliness of the world.
EmilyBatdorf Nov 2020
haughty and hateful or pitilessly played,
head freed from embroidered shoulders,
her heart beat, heavy, behind corseted layers.
Temptress or model maiden,
she fell just the same.
The jewel in a king’s crown,
cast away for the next shining stone.
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