Wednesday, June 20, 2012

30 Days Of Writing: Day 7



In the night of the cinema, you
poured yourself down my throat
like electricity, coursing through
my arms and wrapping yourself
around my shoulders like an
unwelcome lover; infiltrating,
penetrating, swelling my veins
and stilling my tongue except
for when it speaks of you.
Perfection in the angle of
your jaw line. Perfection
in the curve of your cheekbone.
Perfection, sharp and blinding,
in the length of your long fingers.
You crackle like sex and magic;
you rape me with the force of your
invisible scent. You are statuesque
and impenetrable, six feet tall on
the screen and six inches long as a
jagged shard in my aorta, creeping
ever closer to that vital chamber
where you will finally tear my
left ventricle and stop my blood,
my breath, with lust. You will
fill me till I can be filled no longer,
because you live by alien rules that
enable you to transcend time and
space so you can crawl between my
legs when I’m alone and suck me dry,
make me cry, make me hate you, make
me love you, make me your hollowed
vase filled with withered blooms that
vaguely resemble what I used to be.
I rue the day I knelt willingly at the
altar along with the millions to worship
your ruthless beauty and two-edged gifts
that you scatter for us to scramble over
like crazed maenads. I am mindless with
a hunger that can only be fed by your
silver tongue. Deceiver, weaver of
wayward thoughts, fill me again with
your knife-like eyes; pour out my mind
and fill it with your smooth limbs and
impregnate me until I disintegrate and
my bones melt into yours and serve to
make you ever stronger.


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