I used to know how to put myself back together.
I lost that when you burned my blueprints.
With your fucking tragic eyes and your host of demons, you made me bleed.
And smiled when I asked for more.
poem
Past Imperfect
I spend my nights sharpening my soul on the whetstone of dark desire
I pour the contents of myself into moulds that wear each other's skin like cloaks against the coming storm
I Want
I want to touch you.
The stubble of your jaw against my palm,
Feel the give of your bottom lip pressed to mine,
Follow the curve of your bones and muscles beneath your flesh.
I want your scent on me as I lick the salt from your skin.
I want to drown my senses in your existence.
I want to learn you.
The way your voice changes when you say my name.
When you beg my name.
When you cry my name.
I want to hear your voice break like a wave against the rocks.
I want to see what fear looks like in your eyes.
I am
A liminal space where pain courts fear, and pleasure flirts with madness.
I am nothing.
I am yours.
Whittled down to a single need, I feel what you want me to feel.
I am lost.
I am found.
The Tin Man’s Puzzle
This is how it works:
First I hurt you.
I find all your cracks and pull you to pieces; I unmake you.
I leave you a sobbing mess on the soft bed when I'm finished with you.
Skin wet. Heart slows.
Eyes gentled. Hands gentler still.
Now let me put you back together.
All your little puzzle pieces. The corners and edges and all the ones that look identical but that I know are as different as the sun and the moon.
Breathe. I have you. You did so well.
I am proud of you.
Are you ready? It's your turn to hurt me.
Only you have the key to open the tin man's chest and pull out what's inside.
