markbousfield

As we shared our countenance
(love like a love child's)
we breathed a beautiful lie.
When our cancers end,
when we take off the masks to die a little more
I will be the dream that haunts you,
the hollowness in your cheeks,
the fingers around your throat,
around your vulva,
the touches that terrify and tease,
the hands that masturbate and murder,
the voice that you will use to talk to your self.
That will be me.
I will be the slow tenderness,
slender in it's arousal,
cradling you in my coquettish aura.

Her pornography so close I can almost taste her,
the deep angst of the fucking urge
sucks down in my chest,
my lips become dry and my tongue moist,
I do not exhale for days at a time,
the overwhelming copulation of fantasy
lays like a pebble over my disgrace,
not in this place,
a flush of arousal just at the thought,
she leaves the room with a bored sigh,
'Whatever'

I thought I was an angel,
turns out I was just a bad man with freaky bird wings on my back.