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A kiss to your nethers. Neither here nor
here, you say, showing me where I cannot

go. That’s fair. We all have limits. I swore
once that I was done with blood. But that dot,

clit clot of red, pulsing in your panties,
that’s hard to pass over. Your dark moon days

leave me chewing on cotton mice: to squeeze,
to taste, to savor your hell week. Hell craze,

you say, as if I could steal that divine
flow in your menses, eldritch itch, that clot

dried on my cheek. “Vag-y rag ride,” “buttstuff,”
“dark sex magic,”
that’s where you draw the line.

Chill, you say. There’s more to life than sexpot
mischief. Yes, right now your blood is enough.