Why do you kiss me when you want to fuck me?
Lips raw and red, palms moist from our friction,
wouldn’t you rather me still? Dead
as a mannequin — soft and malleable
as silicone. Why dress me up to tear me down?
Crawl into my hollow skin and wear me out
to your best friend’s birthday party.
(I must’ve lost the invite between the door and the bed)
Do you make love to your steak before you devour it?
Whisper tender words to its bloody flesh
until it sings its own eulogy. Don’t tease me boy.
I’d rather you hungry;
panting on top of my body in a violent heat,
than feel your icy fingers climb down my pants
in the backseat of your run-down Nissan.
There is no need for foreplay here — say the word,
and I will open up the gates of the church
and worship you.