this must be love, you think,
as she presses your shoulder into the tile wall.

space is not a concept here
as she seeps into your skin
and you gasp
when she looks into your eyes
because she can feel you alive,
awake and writhing beneath her hands.
the tile is a dull ache.

later, much later, you will remember
that you locked the door, and that
the warmth spreading over your thighs
is dark and slow and blooming into
the blank sheets.

            the drain is filling up but the
            water is only another weight.
            you welcome it.

    your mouth is open.
    it is all you know.

she digs into your jaw
the flesh is all heart, but bones
do not lie, she reminds you.
but you sigh anyways because the story
always ends the same way: you,
the girl, and two severed wrists.

your spine curves against
a rock and a smooth place
while the sharp tang of sweat
hangs heavy in the air.
this must be love.
you will relish this.

    there is something forgotten,
        restless, shifting under a dreamless night.
    you want to open the window.
    your hands do not obey. you didn’t really
            want to open the window, then.

she whispers into your teeth that you are mine and
for a moment, everything is blindness, everything is
expanding as the heat races down your skin and
over your flesh and you are hers because you will always be hers and
you know this in the last chamber of your bleeding heart,
you have heard its chaos echoing, infinite, searing
beyond, beyond where there is no separation
of you and her and you, where
light begins and terminates because
you are the circle.

                                                                ­         later, there are lines of red,
                                                         three        parallel,            to match
          on your back like scars    of victory. you smile at this.

rivulets tracing down your neck it
                                                   is delicious,
             this sacrament you have been gifted.

the body is not a place to hide.

you mistake the fog in your eyes for
the steam on the glass, but no one
is there to correct you. then again,
it is only water, the same at your feet,
the same on your hands. you laugh.
water and fog and glass.

you lean over the toilet bowl while the blood drips out,
your ribs cracking open like soft eggshells,
but it’s okay because the cold linoleum will
cradle your head when it’s done. faithful lover. holy night.

your head slips into the bathroom sink.  
this ravaging soul of yours shreds.
this must be love, and this last time
the air sings it for you, the
candle snuffing out.

consummatum est.