THESE ARE MY BLACK INKS

Skin was just a fashion we wore
on icicles for bones,
dripping
with anticipation;

I asked you five times a day
to lie to me
because it takes more time
than the truth ever could,
and time
is exactly how
we ate our way
inside.
We raged
like the ocean,
and fucked
like we were drowning;
we built each other up
so we could break each other
more—
we played our games,
a fifty-two-pickup
of scatted sheets and tangled legs,
and too too many pieces
to ever hold.
I crushed The Sun
in a casual lust
and just because
I could,
and we made those nights
a blank ink
with whatever poured out.
Closed-mouth brushes,
open-mouth dip pens—
prowling kisses:
handwritten lingering strokes,
stained our lips in triplicate,
and bodies wore the carbon-copy marks.
Your voice
is a liquid seduction, and
Your eyes
are a guillotine—
you made enough cuts,
one,
and I was the trigger.
Love
and hate
only differ in dosage;
promises
and threats
share an unmade bed
and we both know
the pragmatic hope
of disposable intimacy,
and sex that washes off—
just not today.

2 Comments

  1. i just looked at the list of tags for this poem and saw “casual sex,” which may be accurate in one way, yet the sex described seems anything but. the “turns” begun by “Love/ and hate” and then the ironic last line give a strong sense of closure.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Sharp eyes, mister! I added this, because in a way, all sex is ‘just sex’, and perhaps this is no different. The poem dances around those deep connections that are ultimately disposable. Except when they aren’t. Thanks for reading this.

      Like

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