10300
He dips his quill in black ice and
scribes arctic winds underside
my spine
Crimson spills of merlot wells beneath my tongue as a lacerated lip becomes a silencing pleasure
Cashmere fabric paralyzes my body into
a position of submission and I am numbed
by these iced searing incisions, unable to
distinguish suffering from comfort
Satisfaction surfaces atop the buttery brown dip that lies between my spine and his dream as colors of sex, love, and pain conjugate a lasting inscription of
chiseled quill to flesh intimacy
I placate his ego as his branding stick
becomes my emancipation and
freedom is found woven
in my mortal diary
by hand-stitched fibers
suspending this love
eternally...
To his pen...I submit
