With a stark spark I begin to sin. There’s sex in my blood and blood in our sex. I tremble with chills of fever in feverish chill. The skin behind your ear resonates with secrets unkept by the murdered. Tumors pulse in the hate of your love and I relish in its agony. Tin foil peace pipes litter the scene of our sodomy. I love your hateful arrogance and I want to kill the look on your face. It is too precious to share with anyone else. I don’t understand this dance, this midnight trance we seem to repeat over and over. But I don’t believe in anything else so I choose to believe in this witchcraft of lust. You carve your passions into the skin of my back and I shudder in ecstatic pain. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some weirdo fink sex freak. But the things you do to me change the core of being. Pulled apart and remade in your image. I worship at the altar of your form and figure, a slave to your words. I in turn know that I am master of the deep revulsion you keep of yourself and that I can make you whole. A séance is what we should call this, for I can hear the spirits and demons screaming wroth when we climax and the lights go out. I should be afraid but I am not. For it is when the lights are out and the night is naked in the afterglow of our making that I can truly see who you are. It is so beautiful I cry. I’m not the crying type and I would never tell you this is what I do after you slumber. The snarling wolf of day becomes a needful puppy in the hay. Whether I am blessed or cursed really doesn’t matter. I fucking love you. But I will never utter those words aloud for fear of breaking the sorcery that is us.
image courtesy of Parisienne,http://i-love-fashion-and-boys.blogspot.com/