Of Love and Letters

Its not your fault
I would be jealous of me too.

 

The way I write myself into legs
and run, while you dawdle
on the point of sacrifice.

 

The touch of my skin as smooth
as a baby, while you continue
to menstruate in the bath.

 

That which is holy I crown
upon my head, you,
you wear your heart like shoulder pads.
And I am not amused.

 

The way you seek the stink
then flush your body
the way you smell of virgin meat
the way I want to carve my
name into your skin, is not
of love but of letters.
And that is truth.

Reviews

[John D Phillips]

Fierce.

Seriously, this piece curls my synapses. It's vigorous and visceral and swaggering without seeming disingenuous or overworked at all. Just a lovely, hard and persistent piece of work.

The second and third stanzas in particular are mindblowingly good. They justify their tone with some great, great images: "I write myself into legs" etc. Excellent.