It's Not That Bad.

   
Our days are numbered, you're the revelation,           
sick like a pill that makes my head spin.      
Read the packet:         
must not drive heavy machinery          
must not drive you mad          
must not drive myself to stunning distraction          
and somehow in the conversation         
here in the stained silk sheets          
I question how far          
my dizzy head will push      
through the darkness when you're achingly playing          
until I am breaking, uneasy, queasy on morals          
and guidelines that have been stitched into my long socks            
and stay, intent on bringing guilt...          
           
...Now hush         
as these clothes          
are losing touch          
like running tap water,          
ice cold,          
my violent skull teetering      
on the attack you conceal    
as gentle,      
binding me with chains            
I can not see.          
Remind me to try          
silence          
though it angers you -         
count to three.    
       There needs to be    
my control, darling,          
if I lose it          
and lose you          
to a dance with lust      
I might get sentimental.          
Keep it simple -    
face down with          
my back arching          
and my hips high          
and my fingers trembling,            
scratching the sheets for anything,          
anything substantial to cling to,          
my breathing needs to be calm...
          
You're captured between          
my pasty thighs, where release is, though I protect      
and protest          
- must not respond          
I quiver          
but keep my cool,          
enough that you resume trying          
not realising you're already satisfying          
me.          
I told you I was greedy.          
If you want me          
to convulse around your          
knowledgeable shaft            
you're going to need to push          
over the brink,          
passed the point where I can complain.          
     
I wake sore in the mornings          
and I'm aching again by lunch,          
don't need protein, fat, carbohydrates anymore          
but red            
in the face          
and shining with sweat          
I'm in debt    
to embarrassment.          
The chains are real          
and there's a hole          
I need filled          
until I can't bare it to be filled.            
Over the bonnet,            
head hit wall,          
kitchen table,          
around you,            
all over you,            
innocently under you like some spider monkey.          
I can't influence the decisions you make, your lips upon my...          
it's hard to write,          
to even speak          
and I'm not sure I want to,          
sometimes documenting kills the heat          
and now that you have flaws I still want every beat            
of your thumping chest to be working me          
to an orgasm.          
Could you work me            
like the horse no one else could break in?          
           
________________________          
           
(I haven't done this in a while, my apologies.)