blanc de noirs ;
he is the kind of boy
who i would let tear my limbs
and crack my bones
just for a taste of his honeysuckle body against mine.
his lips are stained with blanc de noirs
and my skin is parched;
the only alcohol in the house is for him
and so i let his tongue intoxicate me.
he is overripe fruit
swelling and bursting and bleeding
sweet and perfumed and succulent
and never quite digested.
mama, is this the type of boy
you warned me of -
with honeyed fingertips
and bullets hidden between his lips?
the type of boy
where warning signs are wedding bells
and poison tastes like syrup
and wounds are simply love bites.
if he is
i am sorry, mama
for i would rather have teared limbs and cracked bones and bloody lips
than walk away from him.
