she shuts the door and
kneels over you to question
demanding answers
with obi-dience
the knife between her teeth
driving her points home on your skin
sharp singing silver against
the pink in her cheeks
fuel for another hour
the fast of her grip
all fabric and thighs
rescuing you from
bleak inspiration
blaming your throat
for the loss of her head
separating yours from your neck
in a cinch
until you forget all but her sigh
and when you can't sate
the insatiable
she'll refuse to exit this ride
when you're drifting sore after a savage
nick of time
tighter, harder
belt, sash, tie
she'll deliver you
gift wrapped to the other side
Short sharp sticks courtesy of Laura Slack
