Tag: Love

I want you to cum
inside of me
and say 'fuck it'
to the consequences
because the idea of your
biology and my own - 

of cell and tissue,
swirling strands of
DNA co-mingling inside
my body has become
the height
of romance.

The problem with
calling yourself the
muse of a girl 
with daddy issues,

and a habit of
using men's bodies
to masturbate with is
that the love may

be fabricated, and
when she's used 
you up and the well

of inspiration has
run dry, you'll be
thrown away like a 
                   shitty diaper. 

Who the fuck 
are you anyway, 
that my blood 
should turn from
rust to fire
at the mere 
closeness of you?

And who the fuck
am I becoming
with the shiver
of every orgasm, 
under the pressure
of your lips 
on my own?

Who am I?
Because I seem
to have lost
track - seemed to
have forgotten that
I'm only a: 

broken girl,
a fast girl, 
a foul-mouthed girl.

Who the fuck
am I? Because
when I look
in your eye,
and see myself
reflected there, 
I'm not trash
            anymore. 

Maybe I don't like the silence
 because it reminds me of an ex
  who used to disappear for days at
   a time, saying that the aliens had
    abducted him. 

Every time he'd reappear it was
 with some new girl, hanging off his
  dick - and I knew he'd slept with her
   so that he'd have a place to sleep, and 
     food to eat. 

I could never understand why
 he wouldn't come to me to ask
  for these things, knowing that 
   he'd never have to pay for them
    with sex. 

The last time he disappeared
 for months, turning up on the 
  opposite coast so that he could 
   "make it," but came back home with
     a pregnant fiancé.

"I'm your muse,"
his slow smile 
met my hesitation,
exhaling a billow
of blue smoke
into the space
between us. 

"Yes," I allowed,
raking my calloused
fingers through his
soft, fine hair. 

"I like it,"
he kissed me gently
as only a shy lover could.

Do you?
I wondered if he
understood what it 
meant to be such a thing.

If he grasped how
much of my emotional
landscape is painted
in a pallet of him,

The brown of his hair,
the blue of his eyes,
passionate reds, 
bruise purples, 
and the black
of abandonment.

It's all fun
and games until
someone loses 
their heart.

You came to me,
 pockets overflowing with
   tamarind pods,
    ripe figs, 
     celery root
       and
        prickly pears,

bravely holding me 
 for thirty seconds
  "because that's how 
    long it takes for the
     endorphins to be released." 

No one's held me 
 that long before, 
  and I could've fell
   to pieces in your arms
     because you felt so safe. 

The last straw was when 
I slapped his ass while he
fucked me slow. 

"You sick fuck," he rumbled
in my ear. 

We laughed
in the thick darkness with
nothing but each other to
cling to.

I want to write a poem on your body, 
scrawl all the words of my
love and passion upon your
flesh; my mouth the pen.

I promise to write slowly, 
ensure proper punctuation
and grammar, and to end with
a stroke that brings you bliss.