Help me

I’m back in that space
where it’s perfect to be
spread for you, gorgeously undone.

I know you know what I want,
the cold scalpel,
the hot stone,
the heaviness of your glove,
the pressure of your fist.

Back in that space
where I can hear
the crying of your heart,

the wanting of you
to bend me, break me.
You know I know what you want,
the split of me peeled open
and singing for you.

No tags for this post.

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 Fiction. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

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