Reach tender friend for my curved back and use your lips to play a gentle tune with my unbleached vertebrae.
Whip the nonsense out of my gooey confused core.
Tie each individual finger off into swollen fleshy streamers and offer them as tribute to an amused idol for our moral wrongdoings.
Idolize my blemished body and string me over a key-turned bed made of duck feathers comparable to an altar of bemused insatiability.
Wrap me up in a blanket soaked with golden honey and let us stick to our vows like a dozen gnats lost to fly-paper.
You smell sweet like a piece of rotten fruit and I return ceaselessly to suck on the flowery words dripping from the cavernous holes in your head.
Crane my neck backwards with fixed hands laced through my wet hair.
Spit your merciful syrup between my ribs and lubricate every aching organ.
A pulse is conversation to the wounded.
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