'X' Marks the Spot

 I am a pirate,
a ghost among the sunken ship
of your treasure trove heart.

Like the last bit of rum in the jug,
I enjoy the way 'fuck' rolls off your tongue,
as if you invented its meaning.

I try to articulate that one syllable,
match your way of speech-

You've never needed to dress your words-
dip them in ink or paint them in poetry
upon the exotic map of my sun-kissed curves.

I have drowned so many times
in the green sea of your eyes
that I am coughing up seaweed
& weak bones.

You tell me not to speak-
that such words sound dirty on my tongue
that my spine is made for beauty
and not for a bounty.

But you, you are a plague
light-years at sea
and I am finding the ocean
through seashells
& salty siren lips.