Torch song

A tremble of my breath, a whispered sigh falling from my lips, it paints your name in steam on the window. I wear rose tattoos with ephemoral petals and demented edges, like lacy lingerie. They taste rudely of seared passion upon my shameless skin, saline like the sea, when you trace them with your tongue.

I try to remain poetic; he wants nothing of that. He craves me in coarse manners, raw like his whores, as if my body was the flesh of veiled dancing girls in a Babylonian temple. If I resist, he may beat me, & perhaps..... perhaps I would blossom, like an orchard of thorned stars, should it come to that.

And after the towering rage of his lasciviousness has been satiated upon a bed of smoldering ash, we warm our bellies on the afterglow. His exhausted lips rest tender kisses upon shuttered lids and this torment of passion that rises like a bird of fire: we belong to it.