Ferocity Bleeds Through

This love’s ferocity bleeds through
with an itch reserved
most often only for the shadowthings
that scritch behind eyes
leaving tiny smoking clawtrails.

I have not loved like this
in a thousand lifetimes.

I have not known
any bliss such as I’ve known
lying tangled in your arms

above the shredded masses
of those who strove to keep us apart.

They are little more than bedding now,
and we consecrate their leftovers
with twined breath
and the cracked bones
that come of forceful adoration.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Go ahead -- say something. Anything.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.