How it felt - the joys of hindsight

Parisienne air
streetlights filled with wine
slip suspenders to my thighs.

Make me an object
of inconsistency.

Grab my neck
and indent my skin

I don't want to feel loved.

I want cane marks on my back
with your blood in my nails
seeing red
only red

four poster lust
choking on fine lace garters
then just hair

there's pain in thin air.

Needle marks between my toes
like an oil painting
Dorian Grey
breath is dimmer
pulse psychopathic.

The cigarette burn on my cheek
makes living
an entity
I can feel
briefly.