WHEN LUST SPILLS
February 12th, 2025
TW: Fictional violence.
Amidst the August heat,
she sweats into all of my poems.
God knows I have tried
desperately
to write about our trips to shops and our sweet little picnics.But ever since her peculiar appearance into my world,
my eyes have become blurry.
With only her angelic silhouette still visible.
To truly capture her like the mystical creature she is,
would be everything I’ve dreamed for.
God, how impossible it is to see anything else.
Write anything else.
My hands too stained of her
(in so many ways)
to utter another subject on any page.
I am in inescapable heaven when I am trapped in her lips.God.
Are you seeing this?
How could you abandon such a thing?
And to send her to me?
But then when she trips on the dock, and scrapes her knees,I am reminded that she is, in fact,
mortal.
Quite like me, I suppose.
But that doesn’t sound right.
She couldn’t possibly be like me.
I want more.
So much more.
I long to sink my teeth into her sun-kissed skin,
taste the lingering salt.
Though, I may have bitten her too deeply tonight.
She mustn’t know. No one can know.
That when we kiss,
I am like a dog during the plague.
My mouth waters for her.
Hungry, craving.
Needing.
Oh, how her dresses delicately move against her breast.
God almighty
has never been better than when he created her.
What has she done to me?
I can't eat without her.
And my eyes struggle
relentlessly
to close while the moon hovers over the waters.
They never truly rest, let alone my mind.
I haven’t slept in days.
I despise her.
Yes.
You heard me.
I despise her and I writhe in hatred.
She did this to me.
I was innocent, you see.
Before she came.
I was clean.
My conscience was as clear as the damn crystal on her neck.The same neck I ache to sink my teeth into.
I lie here bloodthirsty.
But only for hers.
Only hers will do.
Thinking,
dreaming,
of how it would pool into my mouth.
I lie awake, in the most ungodly of hours.
And I wonder.
Would her blood be as sweet as her nectar?
I want to become one with her.
To grasp her flesh.
Sink my fingers into her chest, rip her apart at the seams.Wrap her veins around my wrist.
To finally hold her heart.
And squeeze.
And watch the blood drip—
No.
God…no.
Why must this always lead me back to God?
Is this my own form of repentance?
Should I be praying?
Should I pray to whatever god is out there that would still take me?For all these thoughts,
these desires that carousel
and buzz
and slam against the walls of my skull.
Perhaps I am a lost cause.
I’ve become feral.
Rabid.
At the mere scent of her.
She has consumed me and left me forsaken,
for I have nowhere else to go from here.
Even if she dares to let her bones sink into the earth,
for all I am worth,
I will surely go after her.
God.
If you’re out there.
If you even dare to listen.
P l e a s e.
What has she done to me?
