somebody told me there
was the dark
something black upon the lines
a shadow in the light
of the skin
hovering
just below the tip of my tongue
as you lean in to kiss me

i ask you to hit me
and you oblige
press the pads of your fingers
into the curve of my hips
and pull

though i do not know how to write this
the desire
the black
the ache
the tender feeling as you kiss me gently
on the forehead
run your fingers through my hair
before you grab tight and pull me down
with barely enough time to moan
or gasp in pleasure

for it's a complicated sort of thing

i am writing
as if this **** is art
something broken within the wine
a voice upon the wind
and the red ink upon my paper
this is eventually all the same
the voice and the silence
the pain and the ache
the anger and the crying
until i am left with nothing to write about

for these are the moments
when i learn willingly
to hate the poems
i seem to be only capable
of writing

for i am still going
and writing and laughing
in circles
no closer to any answer at all