the way he held her

somewhere close.
sliced himself some days;
let her out to roam free in my bedroom
some mornings
so I’m wrapped in wet sheets,
dissuading gaze,
I’m always waiting and
instead of sweat, praise in primal moans;
it was the way I held on,
to the last bit of his scent,
to the worn corners,
to the post for stability,
to the both of them.
painted blood red and in heat,

amends of self preservation lost
in the latest incision he made
with his teeth
and I am left with bite marks
lining the inside of my thigh
in the shape of a smiley face.
and he is calling her right

“12th house”


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