by Hunter Burke
He wants to tie me down. I sit across
the coffee table, my arms caked in wax
that drips from his mouth, a gaping smokestack
pulsing feverishly. I calculate the loss
of letting magnets be magnets: the cost
outweighs the pleasure, the pleasure unpacks
its suitcase full of summer, summer attacks
the autumn in my body, and I gloss
my doubts in cooking oil. I won’t fear sin.
I won’t fear blood. I won’t fear fire licking
at my feet. I’ll crave lips and teeth and meat
sliding through me like a prayer. I’ll peel my skin
away from the bone. He’ll bind my wrists with string.
He will own me, and I’ll embrace defeat.
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