Categories > Original > Poetry0 Reviews
After reading Les Fleurs du Mal (Baudelaire), one gets a little... dark.
that grow and pulse in time with the body and heart.
The flashlight has long been dropped, leaving the darkness
grey warmth against his face even as it smothers lust-
the characters calling out, flow from their veins
like inky blood that scrawls happily across the page
and soaks into every punctuation mark.
The knots are pulling, tormenting the body into forms.
The red twine cutting pleasurably into parchment skin,
binding marks that should not be enjoyed, loved,
treasured for the reminders they are.
The blossoms of possession and love, they remind,
collar better than any scrap of leather around his neck.