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The Little Death

The slow throb of desire My thighs covered in particles of fire Your mouth its curved grace Sickening spark bad liar I dreamed a funeral pyre The flames come up a fiery tiger I wake from the deadly tomb A dull ache where there once was fire The French call the moment of completion La petite mort or ‘the little death’ I died nine times with you Like a cat I have nine lives And nine times to die But out of the ashes I rise renewed And forget you

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019

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Date: 10/29/2019 6:16:00 PM
Zara, good write. To love is to make oneself vulnerable.
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Zara Bosman
Date: 10/30/2019 6:22:00 AM
Thank you, very true about vulnerability : )