This desire is inconvenient. I don’t have time for the tides that rise, the build and pulse, the steady throb, the bad ideas whispering like consequences are someone else’s concern, like all I want is to whisper your name on the winds and have it tickle your ear. Inconveniently.
Fuck me inconveniently, with reckless abandon, without shame. Fuck me when you shouldn’t, when you can’t, when this is a distraction, a slow smile, a hand strategically placed to hide the accidental erection.
What rises up in me does not have time for inconvenience, a concept foreign to what lives in selfish insatiability. What lives in me echoes in a cavern of desire, a yearning maw open to devour without filling. Desire is expansive, cathartic, cataclysmic. The inferno burns, sending smoke signals from my pupils, dilated, stars dying in black holes, the memory of a burn.
Fuck me like we are made of fire and darkness, like the heat doesn’t scorch and the shadows do not tremble, like the boundaries of skin are malleable and we can forget, so easily, where you end and I begin.
This is alive, alive like language cannot contain, alive like passion, like bodies colliding haphazardly, the impregnation of stars, the birth of galaxies, the expanse of a red giant flickering like a movie reel stuck in fast forward.
Fuck me like gods and demons, like we are deities keeping the earth turning and the crops growing, like your cum and my orgasm are the nurture to the soil that brings the flowers to bloom.
What rises up tastes like danger, like mistakes that tell good stories and are romanticized to dull the ache of broken hearts. What rises up curls, stretches, unfurls.
Fuck me like you want to break me, like the sight of me whimpering makes your heat rise, like me cowering in fear is the sustenance you crave, like my pain is a sacrifice you place upon an alter, necessary, beautiful. Worship me broken, for it is in brokenness I find my strength.
Faces swimming through my blood, etched into my bones. You are mine.Something in me shivers, ravenous. I bite my lip; my hips shift, and I am alone with the memories of fire and the stirring sensation of something rising up from the depths.
Monomaniacism 