TheCourtRose

I have felt your threaded fingers grasp my tongue My body circling slowly in the scarlet silk of your hands I press into your palm, a ravenous supplicant Unraveling slowly against your skin the splay of my hair coils and uncoils I cry out a need for release, your name Take me, Ishtar Flay against my skin the red and black rose of your lips I have known no deeper hunger than when I am in your embrace You anger is weighted with the lust of a thousand stars You admonish my needs- I have given you warriors you cry out Wielders of power, men and women, wells of the deep, and you have only played with trinkets I am swallowed against the waves of your insistence, the penetrating grope of your fingertips as you lay me bare inside the cup of your palms, your breath steals shivers across my dampened skin Or is it fear that prickles this flesh? or the weight of knowledge hovering atop my bones? Knowing that in the vast array of experience, in the entirety of dancing

The house was on the hill and from a night of pub crawling we made it to the top Already too many bottles to count, my ID fallen into the sofa, although I didn't know that at the time Your roommate would hand it to me the next morning when I grabbed my apple red coat His brogue would stop my hand on the door jamb, a knowing look on his face A day later he would say at the bar, where I went out of pride to look you in the eye, flip back my hair in nonchalance I could not feel, "I saw you in that bright red coat of yours as you were doing your dirty little slut walk back home" I never should have been in the house on the hill and when my friend left for the night, I should have grabbed my coat, gone with him instead Weeks before, when you said I was all boots and bitch, you explained love to me, "Find a girl who's like a dog. You can kick her and she'll keep coming back" Smarter to know this was your life philosophy, not a g

Her name was Scarlet and her lips are scarlet. Youth in her thighs belies the age of her face. Couldn't be a spit from sixteen, but casually strokes the microphone and talks about body fluids. Of orgasms, of cum and blood. Mouth of a sailor, body of a woman, insecurities of a child. Female adolescent perfection. Want to put my coat on her shoulders. No puritanical need, but to shade the discomfort she finds in her own skin. Her body a stranger's clothes. Her mouth not so far away from mine. Nothing  can quite unravel adulthood like a raging girl on the cusp. More self-aware than not, she is laughing at her own parody. Laughing at the idea of being on "the cusp" of anything. A reddened puppet hanging from lopsided strings. Her lips swallow the stage, swallow me, swallow our collective silence. I want to tell her that it will be okay, but I can't when surrounded by teeth and gums. Words get stuck in between- No it won't. And- Absolutely it will! crunching