thoughts in bed, 01/20/17

touch me like you can save me,
like your fingers could erase
the bruises that they’ve left—tell me,
do you still think i’m pretty?

do you still want to drag
your tongue along my neck,
to put your hand in mine
on mine on me in me do you

still want to hear me moan your name?
if i stutter, it’s your fault,
the way you pull me closer,
and down, up, and down and

do you still think my lips are soft?
do you know the places they’ve been,
all of them unholy?
they were not made for saving,

they were made for sin;
the trails they leave on your skin,
the gods they call on,
and never in prayer, never in

any attempt at salvation, except for the
saving—no, the savoring—no, no,

say i’m beautiful one more time,

with my eyes closed so i don’t know
where you’re looking,

not that i can hear you
over the sound of my

own touching. let me take us
to where we’ve never been.
we can’t save us, but we can try,

or pretend to.
what do you think?






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