She gives voice
to the things
beneath her tongue,
the umbrous nature
of what’s inside her
crawls out over her lips
and takes its own sweet time
finding feet, claws, wings.
She learned too late in life
her mouth is a Pandora’s box;
she is never quite certain
what will come
when she lets the hinges creak.
If I thought
for one moment
you would betray me,
I would cut you off
and leave you to rot,
to fester and tear open
under the weight
of your bloated hubris.
If I thought
for an instant
you couldn’t be trusted,
I would slit you open
from tongue to touché,
letting your spoiled innards
hit the floor
to steam at the feet
of everyone coming after you,
to serve as a warning
to my worshippers:
never lie,
never cheat,
never steal.
Even the thought of it
will be enough
to not only cast you out,
but let you burn.
I believe
in the wine-taste of your lips,
the scotch on your tongue.
I believe
in the burn behind your eyes.
I believe
in the fire of your touch,
the way the muscles of your back and shoulders work
beneath your skin when you move.
I believe
in the screaming ache under your voice,
the soft white noise of questions unasked,
of pleas unanswered.
I believe in you,
and the precious need of your love,
and all the facets of it
as yet unknown.
I want to sink my teeth into you,
bite against the back of your neck,
rake my claws down your side
and curl them against your ribs.
I want to penetrate you
in every way possible,
while you breathe
and bleed
and believe
in resurrection.
I want to feel your heartbeat
rage.
I want to listen to your pulse
shriek.
I want to drink you down to the last drop,
swallow you whole,
take you into me,
and snuff the light of you
in my own fire,
suffocate your every dream,
until no fibre of you remains
that isn’t wholly painted with me.
Then
and only then
would I let you go,
purge you from my heart,
leave you in the gutter,
on the side of the road,
in the corner,
on the floor,
somewhere forgettable,
everything about you used
as you were meant to be,
fuel for my powers,
my dreams,
and nothing more.
I’d rather buff my nails and wash my hair.
I’d rather be the object of everybody’s stare.
I’d rather have power, be the one who gets to choose —
I’d rather be high, if it’s all the same to you.
I’d rather wield the knife than feel the blade.
I’d rather relax, knowing I had it made
I’d rather have my cake and eat it, too —
I’d rather be high, if it’s all the same to you.
I’d rather be resting on an unending font of adoration
than on my knees scrubbing for kings and queens.
I’d rather be the one stepping on the backs and walking on the necks.
I’d rather be the one who gets to be mean.
I’d rather be the one everyone’s looking up to —
I’d rather be high, if it’s all the same to you.
