Friday 5/25/2007 11:05:00 PM

In scratches. In bee stings of sex. Sheets stammering with their lust. Her eyes remained opened. Obsessing over a shadow on the ceiling above his head. Some morbid metaphor for the fallacy of love-making. The way every color disappears when the light does.

Her eyes, they never closed. Barely blinked. Blind to everything except the souvenirs of skin in the dark spots behind his head. The missing colors in the burst of his cum.

The shadows never moved. The colors never came back.

Her bed continued to bloom. Her skin continued to shed. In tantrums of men. Candy canes sucked down to daggers. Flesh worn down to the itch.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2021. All Rights Reserved.