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Written for Sin – the only sex ascetic I know of in the great hope that he must have exploded by now. Poetically.

My need strikes me hardest at mid-day and mid-night. This renders reaching out to you difficult, for I know you won’t be around. I am to blame, it’s this distance you see. I quite like you from afar.

So I take stock.

I am now splashed across a bed – a mass of muscles, blood, bones and thought fashioned into a shape I know you find desirable.

I am now lying in my own fluids – a broken amphora of salt, carbons and smells mingling to repel you.

I am now splayed across the table we fight at – surrounded by knives and peelers, crushed fruit and coloured juices, the former teasing reminders to the great pain we can cause each other and the latter false offerings to the olfactory.

I am now you – a mass of muscles, blood, bones and thought fashioned into a shape so incredibly desirable that the attraction could split us apart – rivals, ugly and bitter.

I now leave you be – my body my own to keep and love. Your body mine to secretly despise.

I now know you will not return this one gift I can afford – your choice of punishment a painful slap.

I now hear the start of a screaming echo – never letting go of me and rushing to possess the women who come after you.

I now give up – I am you and you are me – possessing, painful, pleading, pleasuring, purging, poetic, peaceful.

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