a wine cellar of unsaid things.
This is why my love letters burn
like whiskey - every word is
fermented with all the fluff
evaporated off. I love in a way
that leaves people on the floor.
He’s someone I like to keep at arm’s length, until he starts kissing my fingertips. Then I’m reaching out for him, and softening at his side. When he slides himself in, I think “maybe this is the piece of me I’ve been missing,” and when he collapses onto my chest I think “maybe this is where we belong.”>
I chase after men with a certain smile -
a mouth that leans a little too far to the left.
(One confident corner curls upward,
the other creates an air of composure.)
What is he hiding behind that sarcastic smirk?
And what charms can I use to break his scheme?
He is undeniably more dangerous than the boy who blushes sweetly;
a boy you can be sure won’t reveal any fangs.
And, perhaps, this is why he’s more attractive.
(Animals can be tamed;
I’m not afraid to hand feed a wolf.)
I’ll keep digging my nails into another lover’s back; I don’t care if it kills you to hear that and feel me under your skin. I send my hot breath down his neck - I hope the very thought gives you chills. I’ll taste his skin until you’re gone from my tongue. I’ll take him in until there’s no room left for you. You’re not a worthy occupant of this hole in my chest, and I’m too smart to be sickened by the guilt of kicking you out. You deserve to lay awake at night, wondering where I am. And I deserve to sleep soundly next to whomever I want.>