I was given a gift; the gift of guilt.
To use freely and often.
I did. I do.
A member of the club that no one wants to join.

My gift is pretty
Dependent on words.
On thoughts.
On her, him, them.

On sticking plasters carefully stretched
Over still weeping wounds.
Quiet now.
Yet visibly hidden.

Still-birth emotions laying on the snow.
If I let you smile, will sticky lips let go?
After-birth sensations, beaten under hail.
I want to **** the blood out of your gums.
I want to touch you until your body's stale.

Venus in the snow -- the more I taste you,
the more the echoes in our mouths slow.
Shake it, baby -- **** me like I just got out of a coma.
Nothing more that I want than to be your trauma.

And I just have to bury myself in your emotions.
And to drown in the swell of separate oceans.