You grasped her features in your hands.
An overripe apple moulded by your fingers’ intent.
You desire to squash the former glory of her face.
You deny her to be read.
As your thumb squeaks over her reddening lower lip,
You think of her teeth as something soft, non-threatening.
All you can taste and conjure up is her tongue.
And as yours travels through the fortress of your mouth, she is grinding.
Your hands are used to squeeze the last drop of life out of death.
You objectifier, blindness cradles you to your demise.
Passivity was never her forte, to lie down, to suck your breast.
Your arms open to annihilate self-sufficiency.
You live off an entourage, false admiration, the gaze following you sideways.
Can’t you detect the scent of murdering agitation? Her cheeks, off-white.
You are walking on eggshells.
Bacchante Baudelaire’s shed skin. As far as your eyes can see.
“Bacchante Enivrée” by Adolphe Alexandre Lesrel (1839-1929)