Wearing the rough worn fabric
of your kisses
leaves a chafe
along my neck and thigh and heart —
your touch has never been satin,
your gaze has never been silk.
You’re the sackcloth and ashes of love,
marking me in poverty and shame
in the best of cases,
and in the worst,
leaving me bare
for all to see my unclaimed self.

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.
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