june’s sacrament of reconciliation

Am I making you feel sick?

With filthy blood spilling from my mouth, as I nod my head, lost in giving you one,

it drips all over, red stains on your stomach, my face and lips,

now, am I making you feel sick?

Am I making you feel sick?

With this shameful lust,

love, if you can call it that,

reckless and wild, too much to control—

while I want it to tear you apart.

Am I making you feel sick?

Through missed calls, through naive, guileless texts,

as unholy virgin cries blend with sweat, sliding down my skin,

something between us breaking, bending,

and I can't blame you for loving me the way that you did.

Am I making you feel sick?

It's past twelve; my fingers reek of smoke,

yellowed and scarred, nicotine stains that linger,

I can't help it, and neither can you,

but is it all just too much?

Am I making you feel sick?

I don’t know if I’m doing this right, 

if I should slow, speed up, soften, or bite;

Am I too gentle, too rough, too raw—as I'm here, mouth opened and all over you—

once more, am I making you feel sick?

november 7th ‘24