sheer

Posted in Crimson Writ, Poetry on October 12th, 2020 by D'jaevle

you cannot say
“this is enough.”
when
the thought
of your thighs
makes the world
too small
to hold
my
hunger

janus

Posted in Crimson Writ, Poetry on September 13th, 2020 by D'jaevle

hid[den]

Posted in Crimson Writ on August 31st, 2020 by D'jaevle

the beauty of darkness
is the absence
of shame
and the possibility
of
everything else.

“No, don’t turn on the light. Stand there.”

You are silhouette in my door.

I am a voice in the room.

“Strip.”

You do. Of course you do.

“Turn around.”

I watch you make a slow, almost timid, turn in place. There is just enough light for me to take in your naked curves.

“Good girl.”

“Now come in.”

“And close the door.”

spilt

Posted in Poetry on August 26th, 2020 by D'jaevle

you like to hold
your cup
like it might
shatter
if I speak.

I noticed today
that you put
all the glassware
behind the cereal

so I’m waiting
to see
if you ask me
for milk.

balance

Posted in Crimson Writ on August 11th, 2020 by D'jaevle

“No, don’t move.”

My words rest precariously upon your skin.

You sway. Teeter.

It is hard to stand with your ankles bound tightly together.

And my fingers curled deep inside you from behind.

And my teeth nipping the edge of your ear.

And my cock pressing rigid and hot against your thigh.

But I expect you to do it anyway.

Choked.

Posted in Crimson Writ, Poetry on August 10th, 2020 by D'jaevle

choked

on my words
placed
so delicately
upon your tongue

you are taught
to respect
prohibitions
by force

“what will you do
when my reach is so long
I can pluck your sins
like over-ripe cherries?”

your answer
is no answer at all
because you cannot speak
with my words
filling
and burning
your mouth

starvation

Posted in Crimson Writ on May 14th, 2020 by D'jaevle

“I am watching,” said the Wolf.

The low rumble of a growl can never be mistaken for a purr, but the sound of a content wolf and a hungry one can be too close for comfort.

Your heat is a sinful garden, filled with dark scents from a blood winter. I want to harvest you, reap the dew of a long hibernation from your fevered skin.

It is Spring and you rise on unsteady legs. You ache from being in one place for too long.

Abstinence has left you empty of everything but cruel memories.

Your limbs tremble with the need to run.

It is too early for a hunt.

But dawn is not so far away.

haecceity

Posted in Crimson Writ on April 1st, 2020 by D'jaevle

A locket the size of a heart, if the heart was made to be kept close.

She held it in her hand, small fingers curled to nestle it against her soft cheek; indeed, she was a small girl, but her heart wasn’t small.

The locket held a secret – but then, that is the nature of a locket, so it is no surprise.

What the secret is, isn’t what is important. What she did with it is.

Because small girls, little girls, are not meant for secrets. They are meant for sunshine, and curiosity, and spinning in circles until they fall down.

So she did what any sensible little girl would with a secret.

She put it in her heart.

And because her heart was so much larger then her fear or her hope or her world, the secret became just another piece of her heart, neither defining it nor becoming lost.

blank spaces

Posted in Crimson Writ, Poetry on March 25th, 2020 by D'jaevle

what if all the blank spaces
are just hiding places
for my devils?

and I fill this page with words
to overturn their homes
pluck them by their wings
and make them mine again

bright light

Posted in Crimson Writ, Poetry on February 20th, 2020 by D'jaevle

you are
a bright light.
a soft curve

unrepentant
but forgiving

you are today’s delight

the space between each breath

and sometimes
breath itself