Things My Wife Says > Thirsty Twitter DM

 I don’t want you to sing to me,
I want to be the song.
I want you to fill your lungs with my flame
and breathe out a melody
to spool around my rib cage.
I want my right hand to shake
as you spill your soul into mine
with perfect meter and rhythm.
I want your lyrics branded into my skin,
so if there are any that follow,
they can run their fingers over the raised flesh
and know where you have been.
They will know your mark and never
forget your name
   
     I want to be your poem,
fuck being your muse. That’s for Holly Housewife
who spends too much time on Twitter,
only fucks her husband on Wednesdays,
but keeps the nightstand drawer full
with daydreams of a savage,
a man born of passion,
who with a fistful of hair,
curves her spine like the earth,
and then writes a haiku across
the small of her back.  
  
     No, I need you to pierce me
with your pen and use my blood
as your ink. Watch my artery spill
onto your page, pump by steady pump,
and taste the beads of salt that shower the paper.
Curl my body into letters of verse
that bring me to the brink of death,
leaving me scarred and clawed
and hemorrhaging onto your pillow.
Use me until I am your own
design, a piece of perfect art,
a creation that would murder
lesser men