My hips are a guillotine
cleaving satin with each giddy stroke.
Limbs akimbo, I ground myself to a pulp.
I just want to feel until I am raw and broken.
In my mouth love is dangerous,
a lotus redder then any sunset.
I gorge myself on belief
and in belief the genius of union
gives way to the marginally absurd.
My heart is a fusillade,
the blooms of my bloodline
crackle and blacken.
Will you force
my memories in place
when they wonder off course?