Category: Crimson Writ

Where my words give lie to the wolf under the skin.

we find mornings

You slipped into silence,
and I listened to rain,
we were in a study and I think
you paused, your breath
was never quite as hesitant
as now.

elegant reasoning while standing in a storm

The sky is drawn in shades of dark gray.

It’s not raining.

The creek behind my townhouse has kissed its borders. rising to annex the banks to either side. It is awake and alive.

It’s not raining.

The road is a slick black sheen, a velvet pathway, and I can lose myself in the rhythm of the wiper blades.

It’s not raining.

My face is wet, scattered drops brushed aside by hand.

It’s not raining.

If it were raining, you would be here.

I would be watching the silhouette on the wall of your shirt being drawn over your head. I would be able to taste salt rain drops on your shoulders, feel you arch against my palms.

But you’re not here.

And it’s not raining.

initials

Two years ago, in the Fall, I was in the back seat of a car driving to the cottage for a Christmas in the mountains with my close friends.

I received a text from a girl, one I’d corresponded with a week or so before.

The text was short.

“I want to bleed for you.”

Attached, a picture. Her initials in red, cut in into her pelvis.

Another picture followed. And another. She was dressed in crimson.

She wanted me to come over one Saturday afternoon when her boyfriend was away and she was napping. I was to wake her with a hand over her mouth and a knife to her throat. I would bind her, leave her helpless, and then fuck her. She would struggle. I would cut her slightly to remind her of the danger.

It never happened; a couple of weeks later she was in a minor accident, and we lost touch.

Months later, kneeling over an angel, and preparing to draw wings along her back, I thought back on that conversation, in the back of a car in a cool November, and learned something important about my brand of devil.

cathedral

Frankly, if our bodies are a temple, you are a small country church waiting for a tornado.

But I have grand aspirations for you.

I forced your hands into a steeple, pressing them together between my own.

Last night, while at a friend’s DC art show being hosted in a small hipster antique furniture shop, I came across a green vinyl kneeling bench. It’s the kind of piece you’d find in an older home, in front of a small alcove with a statue of the Virgin Mary and some lit candles.

It made me think of you, and how I wanted you.

And let’s be honest. The distance between what I want and where you will find yourself is not so very vast.

Which is why you were kneeling in front of me, hands clasped in steepled prayer.

I was going to build a better church.

Starting with you.

sleek koala hat

 
 
 
 
 

she was sweet
such a mink
of a girl

i’d pet her
curled, upturned like a budding
flower

she stole my hat.
said
‘it looks so much better on me’

but all i heard
was how large my head was

at night
she wrapped around me

like i was bamboo

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

ungentle

I’ve rediscovered the word lascivious: given to or expressing lust.

You inspire the elegance of the enforced stop; the tragic demise; the regulation of self, mirrored in the eyes of the person clutching your throat for dear life.

I am not yet ready to devour.

Although, I found myself thinking of you on my patio, in your dress, your leg over my shoulder.

You have a pulse that runs along the inside of of your thigh, the femoral pulse.

Right, here.

pillage

This the pattern of life; a short breath here, staccato in heat and intent, and now the longer breath, the soft blue of summer sky. We breathe, a biological clock.

Pulse; the low steady rhythm that dictates our thoughts, our hungers; directs our instincts and our habits.

There are days I want to reach into the sinews of my arm and find my pulse, grip it tight, long strands of vibrant red wound about my knuckles; or crack open my rib cage, thrust my hand deep into my lungs and squeeze until I have captured all of my breath in the firm grip of my fist so I can count the number I have left.

I imagine my fingers openings, slowly, and each white-breath fluttering upwards.

(I think I have a more cunning wolf inside me today.)

a crease, a mountain fold, wolf on paper slipped under the door

To me, possession is an act, not an agreement.

I possess with words. I own with lips, fingers, and the occasional length of rope.

It lasts only as long as the rope burns on her wrists, the welts on her ass, the act in her memory, and my words in her mind.

Ownership is a claim made over and over again.

Asking, requiring, or stating ownership is an empty gesture if it hasn’t already been written against your skin and etched into your consciousness.

absinthe abstinence

Dwell here, my pet. Curl at my feet and I will feed you in sweets cut from ragged cloth that once adorned false prophets. You can taste the promise of their salvation in the creases of their garments.

I, too, will lead you astray. I will touch you possessively with a light hand and then beat you cruelly in my silence. My disciples are many, but they know it not. They will worship you in sympathetic stares and false compassion.

I will crumble your foundations of stone and stillness. I will hold you up just long enough for you to see how far you have to fall.

So dwell here, in absinthe abstinence, and wait for me.