She held my head underwater.
The bubbles: a language of carelessness.
She claimed ownership.
Distorted faces run across the screen, their voices reappearing, dissolving.
It is a celebration. Always unclear. The empty bottles divulge the sexuality.
His dirty tongue circles around her lips.
Digs in, without a sense of space.
Gallivanting around her chin.
Saliva and tears. Its the devil’s brew.
I dance your dance.
You force me to.
You take your fingers and lift up my mouth.
You create a smile.
My muscles let you infiltrate.
The memory enters my body.
Compliance, so easily achieved.
The drunken dance of happiness.
You feel free when you’re full.
Your tongue is hanging loose.
Home is in her mouth.
All your dreams come out.
Hovering around her face.
The cloud makes her cough.
She wants to run away.
Your red face is so strong.
Your anger and frustrations.
And she holds my face underwater.
It’s all a blur.
I am a child.
I am a child.
I sit on his lap.
And I am a child.
“Greek girls picking up pebbles by the sea” by Frederic Leighton, 1st Baron Leighton (1830-1896)
Croque-Melpomene 