Hold on, urgently try. But gasps become
moans; a fire in every shuddering part
of your lungs, your legs, your skull. Each spasm
quickens, then that flavor, salty and tart,
fills your mouth. Weeds wrap around collarbone,
making subtle curves. Your flesh unstained
by whips or teeth, even when your last moan
turns to silence. Accept this gift of pain.
They did not believe you. They who pursue
your flesh simply to condemn it. Amour
is pain, even while taking your last breath
it is pain. I was there, I believe you,
for when they dredged the lake it proved what your
blush claimed; that beauty lies in youth and death.