Just what has been so terrifying about the experience of you?
The Knowing. Facing that, about you. The way each word you choose penetrates and finds its frightened source in me. The merciless smile, the glance to ensure my pupils dilate and contract, as you speak. You are comfortable with the exposure you create, nonplussed at the flaying of skin, the mining of the open nerve. When I try to stop you, you pull me in with your tongue, details of eyes meeting, skin bared and stroked. Climax. You press your stories on me like soft lips, kissing here, brushing discreetly, here; your mouth sheathing sharp teeth undressed to bite the spots where the skin is thin.
You pull my secrets out of me with your own, whispered slowly to me like confidences. And then, when I have no choice left, you pull away.
Mortification, ailments from.
Silence, ailments from.
Delusions: Forsaken, that she is.
I will take some of the hair, the dog that bites me.
I will swallow whole flowers, filled to sheer petals with vitriol.
I will crunch my teeth together through yellow metal, arsenic, salt.
And be equal: eye level, above ground, breathing.
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