Memories are smoking guns
in the hands of girls
with finger nails painted black
and curse words on their lips.
She liked the taste of blood on the blade
Tattooing every obsession upon her canvas--
her page.
Her awkwardness. Desire.
Lust and punishment. Salvation in every orgasm.
She offers a glance
steps toward me.
Gets close enough
that we almost
graze lips.
The sharp insistent pain
of electricity coursing
assaulting,
violating,
all sensation.
I am raw nerves
slipping in and out of identities.
She wants the lash,
my lips upon her wounds.
The images of bones
twisted to form
erotic fixations
make me want her all the more.
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