Debacle

I want to wreck myself on you.
To trace your body’s sloping lines
until I prick my fingertips on rising gooseflesh
to bring your pulse to a simmered throb
until I burn my tongue on your skin.

I want to lose my grip,
in the slickness of your sweat
And tumble,
and tumble,
over and under you.

I want you to wreck yourself on me.
To scrape your ears on my shallowest gasps
until they’re raw as my reddened skin.
To shudder apart on my tremoring hips
until you bear down in the ravage of collapse.

I want to feel your grip,
anchored dire on my wrists
And give,
and give,
all you’ll have of me.

And when we’ve wasted each other to shells
and can only lie crumbled, breath shuddered and spent,
Then might we rest sure in the glow of debris–

My husk will surrender to yours in the morning.

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Disjointed

I recall a muffled flash of indignity
when my brain cracked an eye open
and squinted past the haze of lust
to see that I’d been utterly upended.
Legs hitched over your shoulders,
hips arched from the ground,
suspended in your fingers…
Quiver.
Your eyes sparked, and your head ducked
back behind a mess of violet tulle–
My inverted skirt.

Whatever wickedness your tongue reveled in then
remained masked to me
as my shoulders ground into the carpet
and my lower belly beaded sweat.

And when your fingers dug into my sides,
they stuck and grounded me–
Even as my torso wrenched
into the pleasured twist
that shattered my
vision to
fragments