I am thinking of the teeth marks
that are stamped across your leather belt.
You were peeling my legs back while
fierce bubbles of spit spumed from my
purpling lips. My throat
became full of breaths, brimming
to the strap, exhausted. With a quick
tighten of your knuckles, the
breaths tumbled backwards into
the washbasin of my stomach.
I am thinking of the threatening heat
in your eyes, settled there- fixed and frightening.
You had encountered your last meal,
fresh and pink with juvenilia.
I was a dead mare.
The neck offered to you, God or Devil,
as a sacrifice on the perch of your throne.
The faint death beat pumped against your
fingertips, beating with anticipation of release.
The dogtooth sunk into the mare.
I am thinking of the low growl,
cruel and inviting.
Part wolf, part incubus. The roses
on my wrists have bloomed in mercy.
On particular nights I can feel the thunder
of your voice behind me.
I am your small child to penetrate,
to destroy and reconstruct (as you see fit).
I am the little doll on the wild lawn
of violet virginity.