Atomiser

The measure of my breath

The cauterised gash under you

all these activities

You have learned and

put into practice for me.

My proclivity

For quiet denial and sitting there,

In the dark.

The way a hand perfectly echoes the slats of rib. Finds its place there, stubbornly

won’t move.

You cross your legs, your arms,

Tilt your chin slightly to the right,

Stitch yourself into my sleeve. Mine beats out of my chest

and now you have blood

on your hands.

I say sorry.

You don’t know where my hands have been, and you watch my fingers with the

sensibility of iron wool,

A scrubbing brush.

So now I know

I am no match for your iron will.

I am no match for you at all

And submission melts sweetly on what you call

My “little pink tongue.”

You touch my back in decisive strokes.

I shiver.

But I walk over.

Because I know you like it when

I lift you off your pedestal and

You get your vanilla fill of dirt.

You trace the line of my face with your tongue

And in my ear, you tell me about my big talk,

My tough act.

But when it comes down to it - all that brute force of mine

Still, I taste of peaches.

I put it down to your soap.

So you want me on my knees.

So, so, you say you want to really see it all.

My sickled feet, the hip dips

The same shape as your lips,

The sticky underside,

The penny down the side

of the sofa.

How I never use conditioner

And end up undecided, sitting

In the dark.

Taste of metal.

Filing down the edges.

The jazz music is getting louder

I watch you walk down the stairs.