What is love,
save the product of
all the parts you let me put in places,
not so close to the heart now are they?
Who wants to muscle love anyways?
I don't want your blood dam,
I want the flood gate behind
your furrowed pink folds,
and your liver poisoned purple slop.
I want your sweat on my tongue
to be my communion.
And as far as eating out goes,
you can keep your heart,
yeah, I'll buy you dinner,
if you return the favor.
YOU ARE READING
Thresheld
PoetryMy life is a series of thresholds that I overcome through poetry. Love, loss, pain, regret, humor, irony, word play, and even sarcasm are as much apart of my life as they are central to my poems here. I am Thresheld. UPDATE: It's been quite a few ye...
