I am drawn moth-like to your dark underlying.
Marked, your true self lies shrouded behind a mask of curved lips,
lithe hips, hiding a hurt beast burrowed beneath your ribs.
I want to lick your wounds, devoured and devouring
the Eucharist of a black mass, martyrdom of inappropriate sensuality.
Your mouth tastes of lost innocence, ripped ribbons and mint,
repentant, broken and promiscuous; this dark cavern
concealing a fevered, frightened thing, pulse laid bare
like a bassline pressed beneath fingertips, the lost language of blood.
Down by the river I daydream of primitive baptism, salt water and smooth skin,
the seduction of you brilliantly falling to pieces, writhing -- rapture reborn.
*"martyrdom of an inappropriate sensuality" is a quote by Clarice Lispector from her work Agua Viva
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