Toxic. Bitch.

I rode the skin    
off your dick as    
an appetizer    
and I sit    
at the bottom of the bed    
ticking one burgundy nail    
against a white tooth    
wondering    
what    
to do    
to you    
next.    
   
Oh.    
   
Right.    
   
Not a motherfucking thing.    
   
I want heart blood    
to spew from your    
everywhere as your    
arteries burst in a    
toxic glut of    
   
me    
   
But you can’t drink poison    
through your dick.    
(Can you.)    
   
Your fingers  
crease the flesh    
of my throat    
then move lower in    
harmony with my    
acid-rain pillow talk    
and you wonder if you might    
fall victim to the trope    
of poetic death    
in a lover's arms,    
   
but you can’t drink poison    
from my arms    
(Can you. )  
   
My hands push the  
back of your head    
to the aconitum fields  
where    
your mouth,  
and fingers,    
and tongue    
smash your fatal  
death throes    
through my body  
  
(fuck)    
   
(yes)    
   
you look up,    
chin dripping,    
at my closed-eyed    
open-mouthed    
revival    
and shiver    
at the sight of    
your grave along    
my arching body    
   
because you can’t    
drink poison    
(from me)    
just once     
   
Can you.