Salacious

"It's strange what desire will make foolish people do

I never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you

...

No, I don't wanna fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart)"

--Chris Isaak, Wicked Game from the album Heart Shaped World (1989) 

 

 

Schiele, Egon. Friendship. 1913. Austria. 

Face down, the apples of my cheeks are riddled with a crimson flush while I inhale all the names of faces who've shared the same blinded experience that currently resides. My saliva is tainted with fear that secretes a tattered rage, in the form of suckled nectar, that is muffled into the historic songs that your pillow has heard before. 

I can make you feel so good.

Your breath whispers like calla-lilies that have begun to bend their will to decomposition. Good has never been a familiar face, one that my presence with rays of dandelions, that has stumbled upon my weary doorstep. 

You know you want to. 

Plumage can be alluring if your feathers shimmer with a gradient of your actual character but don't give me the pleasure of connecting these puzzle pieces. I see those eyes beckoning for a transformation from reality into a fictitious fantasy, of which I'm not the star of. It's false impressionism of a Peacock if you're feasting on the rhythm of my waist against you, like a malnourished scavenger who hasn't seen the gracious gift of sustenance in ages. 

I need you. 

Kisses that print like ink-blots against my neck, I can tell this ravaged craze is nothing short of carnivorous treachery. You can salvage meat that relinquishes tenderly off the bone but I am not a disposable being to be recycled of my attributes; they'll linger in the sultry air that surrounds us. Yet, they'll remain invisible to your blinded perception of desire.