A Time Glitch
Hypnotised by the rattle-clank of wheel on world,
your eyelids sink, seduced into darkness
by the soporific roll of machinery.
The outside blurs and folds, the world overlaps.
Your chest begins to heave and slump with sightless breath
and mindless beat.
Caught somewhere between here and when, you slip
and fall into yourself, onto the bed,
the bed of a stranger. A soulmate.
You linger just a moment, a time glitch,
relieved by the horror, horrified by your relief
at the jolting pleasure between your parted thighs.
A molten bead of sweat, from his brow to yours,
branding you, marking you, claiming your skin
as his. You are one skin now.
And now, as if to take his newfound form,
you feel his hand at your neck, his palm on your throat,
your life in his grasp.
Surrender. He demands your submission not with his words,
but with his fingers: with the wheeze of your will
to live as it leaves.
And you do. Like you always will. For you know
that just as liberation is a form of control,
submission is its own power.
And just before your moment fades, you catch his eye;
that final instant is haunted by his furious love,
the adoring violence in his gaze.
It's over, and you wake to the strangle-gag of ghosts
to inhale the present. It fills you with sensation--
not feeling. You don't feel.
You can't.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 2:24 PM UTC
A Time Glitch
Hypnotised by the rattle-clank of wheel on world,
your eyelids sink, seduced into darkness
by the soporific roll of machinery.
The outside blurs and folds, the world overlaps.
Your chest begins to heave and slump with sightless breath
and mindless beat.
Caught somewhere between here and when, you slip
and fall into yourself, onto the bed,
the bed of a stranger. A soulmate.
You linger just a moment, a time glitch,
relieved by the horror, horrified by your relief
at the jolting pleasure between your parted thighs.
A molten bead of sweat, from his brow to yours,
branding you, marking you, claiming your skin
as his. You are one skin now.
And now, as if to take his newfound form,
you feel his hand at your neck, his palm on your throat,
your life in his grasp.
Surrender. He demands your submission not with his words,
but with his fingers: with the wheeze of your will
to live as it leaves.
And you do. Like you always will. For you know
that just as liberation is a form of control,
submission is its own power.
And just before your moment fades, you catch his eye;
that final instant is haunted by his furious love,
the adoring violence in his gaze.
It's over, and you wake to the strangle-gag of ghosts
to inhale the present. It fills you with sensation--
not feeling. You don't feel.
You can't.
