latent seal
The sheets are sandpaper, grit, and glass,
Grinding the “us” into a fine, grey dust.
I don’t want your heart; I want the raw, red meat,
The jagged, unlubricated machinery of lust.
I shove my fingers into the soft, wet dark,
Feeling for the pulse where the shame is kept—
My hand goes still, just long enough to doubt it,
As if the dark might bite me back, unkept.
There is no rhythm here, only the violent jolt,
The way a predator shakes the life from the prey.
You laugh once—wrong, sharp, not part of the plan,
And the sound doesn’t beg; it stays.
I want to taste the bile on the back of your tongue,
To see how much of your soul I can take.
You whisper my name like it doesn’t belong to me,
And something in my grip starts to shake.
Your skin is a map of every bruise I’ve left,
A geography of ruin, purple and deep.
You trace one back with your own damn finger,
Like you’re auditing damage I meant to keep.
I’ll map it again with my teeth and my nails,
Before I allow you the mercy of sleep.
You don’t go limp where I expect you to—
You hold yourself together, cheap.
Hook your heels in the small of my back,
Let’s see if we can break the spine of the night.
Your grip tightens past what I accounted for,
And for one breath, I’m not sure who has the right.
I want the air to smell like salt and wet iron,
I want to extinguish the concept of light.
But your eyes don’t dim when I hollow you out—
They watch me, still lit, still bright.
Don’t moan for me; just choke on the air,
As I hollow you out like a rotted-out tree.
I leave you a shell and a dark, honest stain—
And the thought you might be lying to me.
agile frost
elfin hound
thick sand
light stag
next trench
rocky cedar
fading latch
shadow gyro