Tags
all my friends are dead and things, dead boy cum, dead little things, erotic poetry, poem, Poetry, sonnet
Waking to the stench of cum and compost.
One more morning. One more old ecstasy.
Waking up with a stranger, with a ghost,
someone else’s dead aunt. You were puffy
with rot, zealous with a whiff of one more
fling, fuck, whatever. I’ve got a nephew’s
hunger for the taboo and your poor, sore
cracked skin. Let the souls of sex addicts choose
me and not the Nether world. Goosebumps came
as you dug your cracked nails into my skin,
as I clutched the sheets and groaned. Willingly
given. Brutally taken … without shame.
Death is a small price to find your fuck-twin.
Celestial desire. Queer mercy.
