This now.

The milk of your skin,
punctuated by the midnight in
your hair,
pours over my open wounds
until you wash away my insides.

My guts, your home.

I never wanted you to
live without my blood on your hands
because, let's be honest,
your bruises make me hard
and my suffering soaks
your sheets.

This now,
I am the blade
that does not cut.
You are the bleeding moon
hiding in the shadows
of our ancient desires.

This now,
we **** each
other
to death.