Inside the distance  

Motherfucker I'll step in the ring, and
chest to chest,
I'll go 12 rounds,
though I'll only need one
to make you sit the fuck down,
shut the fuck up
and maybe
learn something
about the art of
(fucking)
war
in
my fists

You're a brawler in a fighter’s game,
I can see it in your swagger
and your stance,
you can hit it hard,
god baby, you can hit it hard,

but do you have the finesse
to go the distance along
the soft curve of my hip
the length of my waist

the taste of my need

and while you’re slamming blind
at me, I’m smiling
on the inside,
while I wear
you

down

Where you’ve got force, I’ve...
I've only got the devastating
scent of clean linen,
and sex,
and a stick of cinnamon gum,
burning my lips
the way your mind
burns my body,
reminding me...

reminding me...
of the way I taste on you
after we go nine rounds

I stand in my corner,
meet your eyes,
and tip my chin

The bell rings
you pull a dirty shot,
just like I'd expect
pinning me against the side,
immobile against you,
your sweat covering me like
twisted sheets,
the ropes from the ring
digging into my ass,
leaving welts that you
gently trace with a glove

I can hear my own heartbeat
as you grind against me,
and then back into your own corner

We're blow for blow, breath ragged
taste of copper in our mouths
as we hit that wall,

you keep taking those
tight jabs at me,
stroking me right,
hitting me wrong,
until I reach
critical core temperature,
and you let your blade
cut down the inside of my
thigh hard enough
to leave a scar
and I rip my name
down your back
with mine

And we grapple,
desperate
against the ropes
trying to land our shots
while staying our hands

But baby, you’ve taken
one too many low blows,
for me to just stand here
passive,
without running my hand
along the length of your
ego,

and when the final bell rings,
and we're down to that
that last clinch in the corner,
vying to be on top,

I won’t
be the
the one

begging

for release.