Dionysus, ecstasy won't be our downfall, erotic poetry, more than just spilled ink, nipping, poem, shaman of strife, shaman of the bones, sonnet
First you scoffed at this. Ecstasy was dread
and hate. I know hate. I’m healing from rape.
I know what men hate. “Yoo’re nae godhead,
fool,” you’d said. You’d just wanted to escape
white dudes’ egos. –– But healing comes with no
strings if you let go. You shake: neck to thighs.
Curing comes when you cum. “Make me flesh flow,”
you gasped, my teeth nipping your nape. Your eyes
glazed each time you pulled me in. I’ve traveled
queer realms to find this cure, though I’m still not
sure my soul’s peace is my birthright. I call
Dionysus father, though he’s troubled
by his bent son. Let me share what he taught,
love, so Ecstasy won’t be our downfall.