Under the Livid Sky

With him, I can. Because he’s all bone and flesh, bear-big and fight-smart. And no matter how the madness breaches in me, no matter how blood-hungry its glory, I will never get the best of him.

I strike him on the cheek, and he smiles and hits back, dislodging the sullenness of lazy lust. The muted thud of my fist against his chest and my reason turns syrupy in the promise of violence.  I kiss him, press my fingers into the hinges of his jaw until he relents and lets me pour the whine of my awful desire down his throat.

He feeds me insults, spitting words like a quick remedy onto a lover’s palm, too eager to fuck before I’m ready. And I swear back into his skin until those quotidian barbs become new vessels to contain the thousand things that have no words.

I kiss him until the skin of his lip tears and gives its coppery insides over on the tip of my tongue. He grins, a fistful of my hair in his hand, and pulls my rabid mouth off his. I know what he sees: the panting, enraged creature I have become. My teeth smeared with his colour.  Or perhaps mine.

If I break myself on him. If I bruise my meat against his hips, if I cut myself on his incisors, if I writhe until his nails bit into my skin, if I tear my inner flesh getting onto his cock, then all the better.

It’s worth the flood of effluvia I’ve drowned him in. It’s worth the one mark I’ve left on him. The dark bruised place of missing ribs. The ugly art my hunger has left on his skin. The geometry I’ve carved into the back of his thighs for not quite managing to fuck me to death.

Oblivion under my livid sky, in that place where I’m mute cunt and vicious scythe and nothing more. He lets me visit, then calls me home.