It's past two-thirty on tuesday morning and I'm watching moths die in quick succession,
confirming inevitability in the streetlamp below my windowpane.
I'm thinking about topography, how your body is like a map,
how I'd like to explore it, worship it,
but mostly how I'd like to wage war upon it:
Assault your senses with the scent and sight of me,
dig the imprint of my teeth along your collarbone,
scrape bright red claw marks down the length of your back while
pounding your eardrums with the sounds you force out of me.
I'll be begging you to give as good as you get
Mark your territory with bruises across my hipbones and down my throat,
paint rugburn down the length of my back and
the delicate skin of my knees.
We were always fighters more than lovers but
I swear either way you won't forget me.
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