The Pierced Nothing
Her skin is textured fabric
and a lovely pair of…odd eyes of ink
black and sheen green.
Cherry cheeks, heavy-handed
for his amusement.
Lips sewn to silence
just the way he likes her.
Living only through him
though she’s not alive.
Criminals steal hearts as well
at her lovely, warped sight.
Her face overcome with raw
beauty and unrequited longing…sometimes
with every tick-tock of his thick c(l)ock.
Her party mask put away for the evening
easier for the lingering shadows to find her.
Others may not understand the slow bleed, but he does.
Or the demise of her assembled heart
stitched together from all the best materials
and time spent with him.
She's stuffed full of his sinful vengeance
and an assemblage of herbs:
chamomile, crab-apple, fennel, and thyme
because that’s all she has to kill.
Threaded tight and fleetingly sated
with curves in all the right places.
If she dares tear at the seams
his needlework will do the trick
but the price she will pay is steep.
Candles flicker in the howling wind
a pleasure watching them melt away
drip by delicious drip.
Taking delight in his cruelty
and the suffering of others.
Associating the hurt, wicked deep in hells
pitch-forked seclusion,
fueled by his malefic ways.
The foregone Cajun gris-gris
mee-maw taught her in distance’s past,
soft at first, gentle to the ears.
The heat begins to build as the chanting is spoken
murmured merely through her stilled lips.
The lovely locks of his victims’ tresses
wrapped artfully around her left mauler,
tangled up in the colorful
pricking pins of many
sticking further into her
the deeper he thrusts.
A little taste of flesh
her sweet savage has awoken,
in lust’s midnight hour
tell her about heaven with movement--not words.
She gently squeezes her patchwork thighs
against the cool, keen blade.
Now silence her inner hunger
by tasting the heightened fear.
Whispering thighs of spent pleasure
cascading down his shaded face,
and licked from his hungry lips.
Enjoying her contorted face of ecstasy,
though too soon he’s gone.
Left to writhe and moan unattended,
she consoles the numbness by
baying at the moon
in wicked tongues birth
clawing at its distance,
her appetite still ravenous.
May she suffer one time more, please?
She’ll place simpering kisses upon his
adored feet, clean, and always attended to by her.
She’s hungry again… he knows
but for now, he’ll let her starve
until the sharp pricked needles
are all she dreads-- and craves as well.
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