you are my vessel
meant
for drowning
i fill you with
the way your leg looks
hooked over the edge of the tub
the droplets that gather
in concave and curve
tiny mirrors shaped
by your breasts
until
the weight of my regard
tips you over
you are lost in the woods
you are lost in the woods and you are alone.
you are lost in the woods and you are most decidely not alone.
you can hear my breathing
feel the tickle of my gaze on the nape of your neck
you pray
I prey
we pray together.
we pray through hands on naked curves
we pray through teeth on lower lips
we pray through fingernails biting into thighs
we pray when I open you
when I grip your throat
when I enter you
when you feel yourself sundered
to the choir and tears of angels
we pray
you are Andromeda on a cliff
blindfolded, bound
sacramental sacrifice
for the sins of another
you are Persephone caught
harbinger of winter
pomegranate slut
reluctant companion
you are Ophelia drowned
tragedy and beauty
just below the surface
you are Galatea, goddess kissed
carved for my pleasure
(and hungers, too)
I am something else.
I am the rope that binds you to the rock.
I am the seeds you that led to your downfall
I am the water you surrendered to
and I am the chisel that cut until you were free
Captured.
You know.
It doesn’t have to be with rope wound around your wrists.
Or hands pinning your hips.
Or a gaze that holds you in place.
It could be with a word.
Or an idea.
It could be this.
You, with your eyes closed, listening to me.
It could be the way my words find their way inside of you. The way they describe the shape of a hunger you are too embarrassed to admit.
You could be captured right now.
Your pulse may be moving a bit faster.
Your skin may be warmer.
Your breath may catch.
It’s perfectly natural to feel that way.
It’s how prey react when caught.
It’s how humans react when they feel danger.
It’s how _you_ react when your base needs are laid bare.
I see you.
I see the parts you are trying to hide.
I see the silhouette of your desire in the tilt of your head.
I see the hungers you can’t admit in the shying of your eyes.
I see you. And I know you.
I know the you that has been down the path through dark woods. You’ve pricked your fingers on the rosebush thorns and tasting blood, swore to avoid those paths again.
And yet they call to you.
And yet the scars on your fingers make you smile.
And yet.
Here you are.
In the dark woods again.
Alone.
No, not alone.
With a wolf.
With me.
I told you to come here and you asked why.
I have elegant answers.
And brutal ones.
But my chosen answer is simple, and it is a question of its own.
Which of the inner voices you hear is the loudest?
Your brash and fearless, finding-trouble in the cookie-jar voice?
Your cautious, should-I-maybe-better-not voice?
Your shy, curious, unsure-yet-precocious voice?
Or mine?
It is not mine.
My voice is never loud.
It never shouts. It does not demand. It won’t insist.
It doesn’t have to.
Because my voice is the voice of your unexpressed desires. It is the language of hungers too powerful to admit because voicing them only makes them stronger.
My voice describes the delicate cruelty of fingernails tracing intimate curves. My voice makes you feel teeth catching nipples with deft intent and hungry succulence. My voice makes you see yourself at my feet, my hand tangled in your hair to focus your gaze upwards.
My voice is a current, a fast-moving river that outraces your patience.
It has found fertile ground in your repressed hunger. It’s roots go deep, finding a home in the subliminal and divine of your unspoken self. It’s vines are strong and they wrap around your limbs like armor. Bound, you are stronger than you’ve ever been. Freer then you let yourself dream to be.
My voice is a doorway.
A cliff.
And it wants you to fall.
I am not a good man
I would choose the apple over paradise.
I am careful right onto the point of taking you to the ground.
I do not ask.
I do not persuade.
I act.
A good man would not want to see you suffer.
I crave your agony, even in pleasure.
A good man would not want to see you at your most vulnerable.
I am driven to see your throat exposed and your ass in the air.
A good man would not want to see you plead.
I live for the words that tremble on the precipice of your lips.
I am not good man.
But I make an excellent wolf.
You.
Yes, you.
The one pretending to be shy.
Come here.
No. Closer.
What? I’m not going to bite.
Mmmm.
I lied.
I will bite.
But that’s the least of the things for you to fear.
But you need not be _too_ afraid. You will enjoy every last one of them.
How can I tell?
I haven’t even touched you and you are already trembling.
…
No. I’m not going to tell anyone.
No. I am not afraid of the secrets you hide.
Yes. I am going to eat you.
…
But before I eat you, I need you…primed.
Mmmm. What am I doing?
I’m finding your pulse. Setting teeth to wrist and lips to throat. I am nipping at your skin until the blood rises with your heat and you feel fevered.
I want you well warmed.
No.
I want you burning.
Scald my hands. Make it hurt. I expose you layer by layer, until your bared skin sears my flesh. Your vulnerability is a poison I drink eagerly.
We will both die the little death tonight.
Ahhhhh.
Are you shivering?
I have stolen all your heat. I have marked you as my own.
But I am not done.
My hand, on yours…yes, I want it there. Nestled between your thighs. I can feel your fingers move under my own.
I don’t need to tell you what to do.
You can’t stop yourself.
Wicked girl.
Wicked, beautiful, sinful, girl.
I cannot wait for desert.
do not pity Midas
for turning love to gold
envy him
for capturing a moment
forever
if I had his gift
you would be an altar
for my sins
little red went riding
and found the woods too cold
now she’s nestled next to me
My hunger is not your hunger.
It is defilement designed: decadently devilish while decidedly divine.
It is blunt, an instrument of destruction, obliterating obstacles to obedience owned.
My hunger casts a long shadow.
It is a key that turns.
At first taste it is sweet. At second, it is bitter.
In the end it is breath itself.