He besieged her body that burned itself into the skin of the mattress.
The sounds galloping out of his dry mouth clashed against her eyebrows.
Her sex had surrendered. The male christening. Tearing at her.
Beneath his heaving silhouette -she had erased precision- she became
Claustrophobic, unseen, unheard. Inhaling his used air, the hot mess. And she
Bit her tongue, hoping her sex would develop the same power, crunch it into
Nothingness.
She wrestled with him and he thought she was playing.
He couldn’t read a woman’s body in a thousand years.
He lacked interest and always had his way.
And she torched him with her insides, squeezing him,
Captivating him, throttling his exhausted sex,
Banishing it into her own darkness
To drown it in sorrow.
“Woman in Red Hat” by József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927)
Croque-Melpomene 