Union
She doesn't mean to deny herself
The slightest pleasure
while he
exists to fuel her imagination
long twisted into a nightmare
full of dried rat bone, decaying leaves
dust.
And dust is what she feels
as she rakes her claws
over what should be ecstacy
tearing paper brittle flesh
she half closes her eyes
whispers his name
wishes she could remember what it is
to be a woman
Because she IS woman
She is
But the moisture, when it comes
erupts from her chest
red, it is her flower
and she savors it
even as the bullet has raped her
robbed her of life
because she is with him
and the passion shows plainly
trickles between his fingers
And at least
it is a sort of union