Her skin is kissed by the stone lips of Luna; pale and cold are the curses between her legs.

My skin barely contains the poison underneath; the lies in my fingertips are centuries old.

She peels her skin off as I milk myself dry

Her breath is ancient flowers pressed between pages never meant to be opened; her ******* are polished granite, worn smooth by the bloodstained hands of old men who lost their souls
long before she
lost her virginity.

These dusty daydreams,
sun soaked and lazy thoughts
floating in the blue smoke
of an afternoon spent idling,
are the only way
I can drink your
milky skin
and not taste
blood.

*Scars taste better when you cry

Water born lovers-
Ripples became tsunamis,
Floodplains bring new life.

Paddles, aftercare
Classical conditioning
Making this one mine

Flowers of flesh, blood.
Bell jars breed suffocation,
So much to tell me.

I'm growing weary
of finding ways
to make myself
come.

I said her name,
and then she came.
The end.

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.