Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

This isn’t just about typos, tapes, staples and pencils, is it, Hunnybee?

I wrote your initials on each of my scars,

so I’d remember that pain doesn’t own me anymore.

There is fire in my veins now.

Candy in my kiss again,

my lips soft,

for when we next meet,

and my hands are heavy with jewellery and fidelity,

nailed to your desk,

to show my devotion.

My scars are all inside of my head,

except the one on my right leg,

that faded with time,

collapsed under my confidence,

that developed as I dared to live under your gaze.

I think,

that if you were to take my photograph,

I wouldn’t resist.

I’ve always been leery with my likeness,

because I don’t trust anyone with something I can barely control,

but this morning,

I woke from a dream where I was the prey of your Polaroid camera,

and all the fear that should have been there was forgotten.

You tell me to take good care of myself.

I don’t answer back,

because I won’t be a brat (for now),

playing it cool in the convent school,

daughter of darkness,

doomed to yearn for your inescapable embrace.

I type,

typhonic,

the heaven of your hand weighs heavy on my mind,

and aches, sweet, across my body.

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