Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
latroy-robinsonPoems
The Hunt The walls convulse, under her thighs, his mouth, their friction. Her hisses hammer the door, stretches into a crouch. Her legs quiver with the rush. She is all copper and scales, hair black and thirsty. It shimmers like the fury of his cheating hands, it chokes him, drops him to his knees. Her eyes snake-bright and wild, springs clean as arrows. Twirl around his throat. She plucks heart and liver first, peels them to bits. She rules by the ****** of her hips leaves him empty as lust. Her rampant thighs jolt, force him to beg for more of this succulent venom. He slings his insides over his shoulder lets them drip over himself, he doesn't flinch at the sticky drizzle. Her stilettos scrape his bones. She snags the shavings, they are her trophies the thrill of the hunt, proof of her savage prowess. This medusa-violence, breaks rooms, love, him, drapes them down her back like bed sheets. She is that myth , husbands try their hardest to hide. They wash the sheets, flip the bed, wipe the sweat off the kitchen counter, take two showers, and too many deep breaths. The door snaps shut behind her. Dad tells me, he didn’t sleep with that copperhead. I nod.
0
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
The Hunt
The Hunt The walls convulse, under her thighs, his mouth, their friction. Her hisses hammer the door, stretches into a crouch. Her legs quiver with the rush. She is all copper and scales, hair black and thirsty. It shimmers like the fury of his cheating hands, it chokes him, drops him to his knees. Her eyes snake-bright and wild, springs clean as arrows. Twirl around his throat. She plucks heart and liver first, peels them to bits. She rules by the ****** of her hips leaves him empty as lust. Her rampant thighs jolt, force him to beg for more of this succulent venom. He slings his insides over his shoulder lets them drip over himself, he doesn't flinch at the sticky drizzle. Her stilettos scrape his bones. She snags the shavings, they are her trophies the thrill of the hunt, proof of her savage prowess. This medusa-violence, breaks rooms, love, him, drapes them down her back like bed sheets. She is that myth , husbands try their hardest to hide. They wash the sheets, flip the bed, wipe the sweat off the kitchen counter, take two showers, and too many deep breaths. The door snaps shut behind her. Dad tells me, he didn’t sleep with that copperhead. I nod.
latroy-robinson
Written by
latroy-robinson
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem