We all crave lust though vary at the cost,
For some, dark chocolate and others a syringe,
I, the contrary
I, always end up in bedrooms that seem to grow as they rip denim from my waistline,
They become so large I,
Leave smaller as they pick my jeans out of their gums like rotten candy.
As if to chew it for the flavor and spit it out for the responsibility to swallow it,
Digest it,
Claim it
I am not alone in these rooms,
For,
He kisses me with the same lips he just spat rotten candy out of before I arrived.
But then,
He will caress my neck until my skin turns to butter,
Until I taste like soul food that reminds him of his mother and Sundays where she would teach him to cook though he would always burn the skin.
He learned to just rip it off.
Taught to neglect the nurture a process demands
to watch things burn and indulge in the comfort of its corpse.
He learned to do the same with denim
I start to believe I’m special,
After he drains himself onto my landing strip of a body,
Panting my name like a Sunday prayer he doesn’t believe himself,
Thanking both Adam and Eve for their infidelity,
For their right of passage to my inner thighs.
But then he’s empty,
With nothing left to drain.
And I start to look a lot like Sunday to him,
A neglected process
So then the room begins to grow,
And I begin to shrink,
And here I am are again,
Laying naked under a tombstone with my name on it