she was a puncture wound in your side,
blown dustily away by your breath, ashes
flown from your hands.
she sparked and hardened as you beat together,
your hips hitting each other like hammer and nails,
bodies twisting and burning
like twigs in hungry friction moving to make fire.
it was the physical friction that dabbled in your emotions,
that lifted its skirts to wade
in the shallows of romantic turmoil,
restlessness ebbing at the edge of your eyelids,
anger fondling you as you tried to sleep.
there was a shift, a widening fault
that split the bed and made her breasts hard to grasp.
the undertow rustled beneath the pillows,
chasing satisfaction into a long needle shape against the wall.
once, in your sleep, I saw her
raise up the needle and aim it towards
what you made love to her with.
in the A.M. haze, she drove it into your side
and ensured she'd be tucked under your skin
until you die, scarred and lonely.
always played it safe
no adventurous men for me
none of those rugged types
or the ones with piercing eyes
I don't want a bad boy that wants pretty girls
and chases them from their dens in tight jeans
the man I've chosen is only a boy
behind a book, who reads pages
the way most men