|
| |
Bite
Throbbing, concave marks
adorn my skin—records of
your hunger, sated only by
the meat of
my body.
Though the pain is sweet—craved,
fulfilling—and my blood rushes
to provide you with drink,
my head—detached,
neglected—wanders.
Tell me, if the flesh fell away
like tender rib meat off of the bone—
would you still ache to sink your teeth
into the me
that remained?
Copyright ©
Vaviana Young
|
|