There is something about our sweet destruction that is so irresistible to the senses. Day by day, I am becoming accustomed to the crashing, the breaking, the wild, spinning-madly-out-of-control bliss as our language. I look forward to waking up with you coffee ground into my spine, as my body melts in your hands like heroin on spoon, attempting to spell addiction in my pulse.
What we had wasn’t love, maybe it was loneliness, maybe it was lust, maybe it was simply wanting to feel again. Yet somewhere along the way, we made the silent decision to call it love because neither of us really knew what we were. Giving monsters pretty names doesn’t change anything.
My fingertips yearn for the hard and the soft of you. My mouth waters for the sweet, salty taste of your lips. I am forever longing for the burn of your kisses against my skin, for the way you fit against me, inside me. I am half crazed from wanting you.
I explore his erogenous zones
like a deft explorer charting my own
personal map, shamelessly unfolding
the mysteries of his body, saving to memory
every unheard grunt and moan to be
revisited when my wanderlust strikes.
I am a world traveler, and he is my world.
His fingers crept into the sweet,
subtle places where my pulses ached.
We were learning a new language of
sighs and moans. My body was his
treasure map, as he followed every
dotted scar around the planes of my back,
searched in between hidden folds and
moistened crevice, until X marked the spot.
Eager and breathless were our hands and our hearts.
Before we go out, I put on
red lipstick, not the dollar
store brand that comes off
easily, but my Chanel Rouge
lipstick in intense red.
So that as my lips trail
down your skin, it will
stain the kind of red you’re
craving. I’ll paint you with
50 shades of passion, make
you mine in every direction,
so that you don’t forget, that
I was the one who found
the spot that quenches
your every longing.
Most men lay me down gently,
my head on pillows, kisses soft
and tender. You put bruises on
my knees as we crashed to the
floor, a tangle of messy sheets,
hardwood and moonlight glow.
Most men fuck me like they’re
afraid to break me, but you
fuck me like you’re trying to.
I want to know
what midday confessions
you won’t whisper through
phone lines, but might confide
to the curve of my neck. Just
like the time when you unraveled
Orion on my back and the universe
fit in our bed, when we came undone
and allowed ourselves to be loved.
For #mayfalls18 hosted by @breath_words_ and @a_sea_of_words_
(Though I used it as be loved, sorry✌️)
For #cherryisamaybaby hosted by @__got2haveit
Like a dance, we will barter
the role of predator and prey,
trading surrender in abundance
like gold under our tongues, as if
it has been a year of drought in
our mouths. Make room for tongues
and teeth, whispers and kisses, the
sighs and sounds we make are the
kind that poets write ciphers about,
the art of worship and war cries.