Tags
breathless, erotic poetry, if you do not cry out in pain while writing, more than spilled ink, poem, sonnet, stretching fun
I say, I am proud to be worth beating.
Love gets irksome. Today I’ll get broken.
I say, my limbs are good strung, like stretching,
but with more gore. I say, what hurts is fun;
that quick stroke, devil gone breathless, one hand
gripping. I want bruises across my hip,
dig? With your wrist, sharp red. Let it expand
with each stroke. I say, I pray to the whip
and all metal that cleaves, carves and slices.
I want it between these ribs, push in slick,
then down. I want to hear these bones of mine
shiver, splinter, crack. Grin like a corpse’s.
What pain curses it blesses. Horrific
leads to holy; my demon to your divine.
memories of my ghost sista 