I can touch the night sky.
literally.
reach up with both hands
peel back the black
and reveal that stars
aren’t
really
stars
they are the dust of our dreams.
bright and powerful enough
to burn holes in the void.
(for L&L)
you want to disappear
but I know
all your
hiding
places
you want to be lost
but I know
it’s because
it means being
somewhere
new
you want nothing.
but I know
you really
want everything
you’ve just
been taught
not to ask.
you cannot say
“this is enough.”
when
the thought
of your thighs
makes the world
too small
to hold
my
hunger
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.”
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.
“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
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
“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.
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.
