this sanitized room I sit in — has no patience with excess

will not abide these memories

crossing damp underwear with thicker thighs

tension eases, the mask slips — off

— let it be known then. When sky loses color

I don’t think of accomplishment or possessions

nor the good feeling of night falling over a quiet book

though she may indeed do just that

she who is me, also lived unchained

stirred wild and intoxicate with loosened quiver

nude beneath lights, burning with succor and sin

drawing you in, spitting you out

pulling from your gut, moans in multiple languages

she who is me, also lived liberate

climbing onto lovers with the grace of a huntress

tireless, nimble, flesh of my flesh, dance the dance

slow and hot, till we enter, heavens gate

hearts and diamonds splay, states of euphoria and bliss

a pill, an act, the actor who removes her shoes

and moves barefoot and sore across stage

seeking sexual redress and torn emotion rent

she who is me, also lived in intensity

on my knees, opening to you like a marigold

learning by braille and fury, the folds of

your inner sanctum, where layers breathed

like poppy fields and we snorted our joy from toilet seats

coming home to nothing alive, only to burn again, shod of fury

that tallow candle without time or fear, erasing the edges of rapture

wrung out every impulse, underwater, coming up for air

surely you don’t fuck all day do you?

losing focus, losing time, an evergreen blur

of want, desire, tension, shame, joy

first you, then me; do it all— leave nothing unexplored

it hurts, it hurts, it feels so damn good

a drug for desire, a woman’s arched neck, back, wrists bound

your weight on my bones, reducing, shells on black beach

the volcano and its lava, let loose, scald, quell, resume

I walk over — shedding clothes like petals

they would call me a bad feminist but I lock those politics

in a steel box beneath me, when your anis

tongue reaches my breasts, culling all, antonyms

give me then, my corruption, I bloody earned it

no trembling creatures sew willingly straight

I want to prick my fingers with the sharp of your needle

tie your ankles to bedposts and unlatch my heart

feel the ravage of leather in my mouth

and know— if we’re going to die

we will die well and with the ache of

too much dissipation upon us, like a rare Siberian fur

the hunt, always the hunt, wound around us

wolves pursuing the slipstream of life itself

holding smoke in my lungs until it glows

you slap my face in a tapas bar and we sprawl on summer grass

inhaling blunt of passion, stung with your resinous nectar

fingers in each other, convulsion, words, enigma

made damp with rosary need, for more, more

she who is me, who fornicates beneath vice moon

oval breasts red with your masticate maul

nipples taut, longing to be chewed, inured

the shrine of excess, nothingness, bewitchment, your muscular tongue

taking you inside, losing where I begin, and you end

a circle of pulsing, writhing madness— je veux te manger

paint on our palms, blood in our throats, immodest

delectable, your smell, lingering, days afterward

I do not wash

I will die with that feeling of your hands

pressing into my unspoken desire

like a black rose

carries with its thorns

the rosette of drawn crimson

imprinted.