need

kiss me. harder than before, to reach the point where i am trying to climb into you. grab my hair at the back of my neck and pull my head back. bite me again and again, hard enough, deep enough so there is no possible way for me to hide the bruises on my neck in the morning. wrap your arms around me, dig your fingers into my hips or my ass as i straddle your lap and force me to you so i can feel your erection against my jeans, because i really love it when you can't help it. tell me what you want to do to me, or better yet, whisper orders in my ear. i'll probably follow them. strip me. lay me on my stomach, press my face into the bed, pinch my nipples and restrain me with your body. fuck me. hard. deep. then hard. tie my wrists down, finger me and don't listen when i say no, for i might come like that. please. fuck me. hard.
and when it's over, i'll need you to do it again.

breathing

one.
two.
three.
four. i am still breathing.
tonight and every night,
your fingers in my hair as you fuck me. hard.
almost to the point where i wish
for no mercy. one.
two. three.
four. five. six.
it's at the point where i no longer question it,
though i am often surprised
by the popular opinion,
for the internet is a bad place to be
when i have questions.
i have been told i should be choking, i should not
enjoy this, there should be no enactment
of agency to be found
within this moment.
one. two. three. four.
five. six.
seven. eight. nine.
ten. and each time i do this
i do not want
to apologize, not for the gasp
that escapes my lips as you bite me,
the grip of your fingers around my wrists,
the whole of your weight against me
as you pin me to the bed, or even
the frantic motion in which i move to kiss you.

for there is no point in questioning
the logic of how my lungs and body
breathe together in this natural state
of being.

the body says

i can trace my fingers over

the black lines, the swirl beneath

the skin now that i have marked

myself, the lines of my body

permanent.

and the body says whoa,

surprise, to the face in the mirror

as the shadows connect

down the right side of my skin,

pale enough from the end of summer 

beneath the light

of the small bathroom 

as i examine my reflection again

and again and

again, in hopes to achieve understanding,

of what i'm not quite certain yet.

still, i think i am beyond blooming now,

ripe along the sides of my ribs,

fading shadows of the marks 

you've left on my neck

as i stretch, raise my arms above my head,

and flex the beat of my heart

in the mirror, ink flashing

sporadically as i twist and turn

myself together and apart simultaneously. 

for i still exist, together, apart,

tattooed and bare, bruised

and healing in the lines of the mirror.

and i quite like this reflection.

and in the beginning

there was the word,
black upon the edge of my tongue
and sweet to the point,
as if by speaking i could remedy
the extent of the problem,
lick the salt from the wound of the page,
swallow
or spit the semen out, feel your fingers
hooked in the hair at the back of my neck
as i allow poetry
to tilt me back until i reach breaking point,
just far enough so i can see your eyes.
for there is nothing quite as pure
as this, the pinch and
the slide, the grab and the slap, the
break and the crunch of the moment
between my teeth as i recite
each line of this moment, the sounds
of the corners of my bones as they fuse together
at the base of my spine,
the soft whisper of a bite
along the shadow of my neck as i arch
to allow you easy, easy access.
i am still listening, and whispering,
and reciting the lines of this love
as i go over
the edge.