She languishes in the gallery of his unspoken alphabet.

Tasting the exodus of his destitution on his skin, potpourri,

She punctures her head into the shapes of his skeleton.

His disease-ridden fingers stumbled across her temples.

The worshipping chin of his perfumed and despotic face

Rams its language into the papyrus of her navel.

 

Sing to me, he croaks, and she concentrates on the holes

In the walls, the abused tapestry, the loud drapes, the saliva

Of his mouth everywhere on her body, the glasses, the knives.

He minimises and collects, her abandonment mocked and mimicked,

Barged into oblivion and savagery. He fans his coquetries across her

Throat and tightens his compliments to soothe her proximity to death.

 

He listens to the melodies of her honey-tongued desire

To be free of him, amputate the memory of them from

Her pores, her sex, her pits and cliffs and abysses.

He howls alongside her edges, blowing his diseased breath onto

Her spine and prays to the underworld that she’ll always be his.

woman looking to a mirror
Photo by Tainá Bernard on Pexels.com

 

 

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