there is a sword in our blood
in love's arsenal, that we know a little
prompted by passion we take it out;
you bit me hard, on my plump lower lip,
leaving a tooth mark deep, a burning reminder
of your sword work of love, aggressive.
there is the taste of fresh blood in my mouth
" that's the mark of my insane love"
delirious with pleasure, you breathlessly tell,
when you kissed me at the landing by the elevator.
" a woman sheds a lot of blood month after month
this is a small price to extract, just a token"
ecstatic in searing pleasure, I admit.