la petite mort

Are you coming?
Or are you going?

I must confess I donít 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

Iím not alive here
never mind what my bodyís telling you
my nerve endings pour me a liar
over your liquid skin
and my tongue knows the stories
youíre 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 itís 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 askÖ
are you coming
or are you goingÖ
to do it all again?

© Indie Adams 2014
Written by Indie (Miss Indie)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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