I think I knew from the night I met you that I could destroy you from the inside out.
Tender is the flesh I tore with my teeth in the backseat of my car.
I can spy your heart through a puncture wound like a telescope.
God let me be delicate.
In French, they call an orgasm “la petite morte”.
Gather me like water in your hands trickling through the slits while I suffer my “little death” by your hands.
Kill me, so I don’t kill you then rip me right back from Hell by rubbing my thigh under the table and whispering the hot air of an inside joke into my ear, it drips down my neck, then to my spine.
The promise that you’re mine tonight, scooping each other out like shoveling snow, all my private affairs out on the floor, you know the way my tendons pulse, you know the linings of my skull.
We sniff and lap each other up like hounds.
I love you like misery loves company.
I love you like ticks love blood.
I love you like sucking on an open wound.
I love you like hope.
And I love you like I know I can destroy you.
Is that selfishness or salvation?
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