POETRY: Sofa Cloths

POETRY: Sofa Cloths

My mind is a pit

A bottom-less pit

 

Half-full with red-orange lava

 

The butterflies in my gut are drawn

By the intensity of this heat

Flying too close to your warmth

Burning their wings and falling

Into oblivion

An Icarean reincarnation . . .

 

Our lips touch

 

At first, unsure, uncertain . . .

Then with blind urge

 

In that moment I know you

And you, me . . .

Everything.

 

I can taste the honesty on your tongue

A curious mix of salt and sugar

Love and lust

And friendship. . .

How do I feel this?

When I’ve suppressed all emotion. . .

 

What have you done to me?

 

Why does my mind develop wings

And take flight?

Not on the powerful wings of angels

But on the tattered wings of the butterflies

That perished inside it.

.

.

.

I have to take control

This is killing me.

 

I pull out the sofa cloths

Roughly tying her hands and pushing them above her

She’s prone now

I go to kiss her

But withdraw

Allowing her to enjoy only the promise

Of what could have been.

 

I pull up her black tee-shirt

Her favorite color. . .

I blindfold her with it

Her breaths come in short painful gasps now

I have not even touched her.

Just a promise

A promise that I can choose to break

Leaving her to die in bodily torment.

 

Seeing her like this

All prone and defenseless

Is riling me up again

I’m losing it

I kiss her

Roughly

Not to show love but to quench my thirst

Then, moving down to explore her

Down the slopes and curves of melanin

Geometry had never felt so. . . sensual

 

She’s whimpering

She wants to move

She can’t have me freely roaming

A thief going through a house

Leaving her vulnerable

And wet

 

I’m at her oasis now

I wait

Her breath catches

I move closer to her pulse

The pained throb is very obvious

The torture is too much for her

 

But I take my time

 

It is my time

 

I am in control

 

I grip her thighs and slowly lean into her

Deep

The room is straining to keep her screams in

The neighbours must know my name by now

Should I gag her?

 

No.

 

Her screams are like music to my ears

 

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The X is anonymous. The X is defined as undefined.

The mind of The X is far more twisted and perverted than that of the Devil at the climax of an orgasm. . . Too graphic? This should be taken as a sincere warning.

However, there are times when the feeble soul triumphs over the ticking mind. The X is a manipulator of emotions.

PS: Don’t try to unmask The X. . . You wont succeed.

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