Le Petit Mort

Ours is a killing love, of vulture circles in ruddy skies.

Ours is a venomous, tender snap of the neck, suckling blood.

Ours is not to question, just to pierce our bodies on swords.

Ours is not to know – it is to bind, to lash, to quiver, moan.

Ours is gored hands in a promise, a whisper of exile and ash.

Ours is your heart heady on my mouth, gristle like old wine.

Ours is not ours,

and I will never

belong

to you.

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