Animal

Chapter: The Worship

We don’t dress up for the men.
We dress up for those scanning eyes,
the envious looks we get from other girls.
Most men don’t give a fuck.
Their intentions are primal,
their approach, medieval. 
But my man’s different.

He cares about every minute detail,
every color of every thread of a fabric
that’s a mismatch,
every strand of hair
that’s out of place.
He kisses my forehead,
paints my nails,
sucks my toes.
He mulls over
every crease on my dress,
every crevice on my body.
When it matters,
where it matters,
he takes his time.

He’s my baby, my darling.

Chapter: The Wreck

I smell my man from miles away.  

I see his silhouette against the roaring sea,
I see his outline through the translucent curtains,
I see him naked through the cracks of my mirror.  

My raging bull
paints the town bloody red,
splashes my canvas
with glaring yellows and looming grays,
at times, mystical and deep
like the giant trees of a forest,
but mostly shallow
like a puny puddle.
 
He whispers sweet nothings
in the silence of the night,
he screams in excruciating pain
at the horrors of the eclipse,
jumps off roofs,
sprints across orchards,
dances under the lightning,
wails under the neon,
wallows in his own half-baked philosophies,
laughs loudest at his own filthy jokes.
 
I taste his thrills,
I taste his wounds,
I taste his flesh and salt. 

He starts fights, starts fires,
taints spirits, shatters glasses,
plays dirty, talks dirty
punches mean, punches hard,
explores me, exploits me,
moves like an animal, 
fucks like an animal,
lies through his teeth,
hides behind failing masks,
worships me like a goddess,
shatters me like an asteroid,
takes me on wild rides
in the steely rain,
rolling on the asphalt –
triggering my pleasure and pain,
consumes me whole,
strips me, eviscerates me,
and vomits my pulp –
decimating my identity.  

I smell his highs, his high notes,
I smell his sweaty fears,
I smell his fading shadows.
I smell my man from miles away.