Dionysus,
god of wine,
presses glasses of whiskey to your lips, tells you
he’s here, he’s here, and
shivers shoot down your spine.

You crack your knuckles under the table--
expand the space between your bones,
you want to punch him-- yet
his hands still find their way to the soft, supple skin of your knee,
press, knead,  and you want to slither away like a snake, turn into the
perspiration that dribbles down his neck, but
his eyes glimmer in the darkness and maybe
you just want him to purple you,
ferment layers of muscles you never wanted in the first place,
bite your lip, smile like lightning,
dig fingernails into emptied hair follicles, and
he squeezes your thigh so hard you’re worried
you’ll break in half.

**** it,
your narrow beams of ribcage only bounce under
shattered glass, he’s here,
he’s hurting you and you’re bleeding and blood is
erupting
out of your throat choking you choking him everything is
red, purple; purple me, you’re saying.