we have been blessed with womanhood.
not in a biological sense, nor a societal one,
but a blessing, due to our values.
no man could ever make my blood so darkly crimson
make my heart race, beat
in places within me for which
i should be so condemned.
i live for the subtle pain
of lying down once
you've torn my back to shreds–
it's the ghost of you keeping me on my toes.
i want the wine to hit you like it hits me
like it makes me want you
what it makes me want
to do to you
the way the black and grey lines
make your face in my mind
and the screaming color which
you actually are
and on occasion–i am taken to
that place
where my clinical proudness
(and therefore, reserve)
is gone
and it doesn't matter except
that you are mine and
i simply want to make that
very fucking clear
every time i look at you
i want you to know
that i am thinking about
the most carnal viciousness
and how it might
feel to be wanted
by you
how it might feel to
have you screaming
my name into my neck
how it might feel
sweet god among women
in my bed
let me tear apart the stitches in
your skirt
my dream
is to not have to sacrifice
one for the other–
as in,
you wanting me
for me taking you.