the sex and violence of a metaphor

"These violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph die,
Like fire and powder, which as they kiss, consume." - William Shakespeare


her melancholia always had a way
of wrapping itself around my throat
like the tightening of a noose
with heavy feet on a wobbly chair
it was the way she looked at me
that had me hanging myself
at the mercy of her desires

my resolve unraveling
at the unspoken promises in her eyes
that only through pain could we set
ourselves free from the demons we craved
my body a story of bruises and blood
to be read in the ecstasy of bitten-off screams
of my gagged, assimilated soul  

willing, always willing
to fall on perpetually bruised knees
and gaze up at her magnitude
that burnt through me with every lament
uttered from her spirit-drenched lips
as I dragged her whimpering into bliss
pleading for oblivion at my touch

in the love-soaked sheets of our delusion
amid the echoes of our screams
it was easy to imagine heaven within the abyss      
God a silent watcher to our guilt-christened fucks
that only fueled the passion for more violent affairs
agony our paltry saviour while we dined on pleasure
gluttons for punishment at the click of rosary beads

‘til death do us part

© Indie Adams 2012