la petite mort

Are you coming?
Or are you going?

I must confess I don’t much care
for your pretty words
like treacle in my ear

They fail to illuminate
the suicide inside
that breathes like pornographic asphyxiation
and chokes when it inhales the dusty promises of your skin

There are stories in the particles
between the light and shadows
of soul and body and la petite mort
that is more death than erotic displacement

I’m not alive here
never mind what my body’s telling you
my nerve endings pour me a liar
over your liquid skin
and my tongue knows the stories
you’re killing yourself to hear

This room our prison
and sanctuary
bed sheets like a shroud
our past selves staining the fibres
that break under our passions
and burn us at the stake
like it’s the last place on earth
we can stand to be
before the smoke clears
and our bodies charred and broken
crumble to the floor

And I ask…
are you coming
or are you going…
to do it all again?

© Indie Adams 2014