Possession | Jessica Drake-Thomas
I assumed it would be all rose-tinted chandeliers and champagne
petals, opening in voluptuous silken bubbles
and burning off into a hint of pink perfume ash.
But it is the telling creak and the shadow of the moon in the blinds,
the sheer layer and stink of your sweat over the chest you shaved bare
into which I want to take a knife and slide it beneath your skin,
exposing your bones; none of them good.
You wouldn’t stop when I wanted, but until you had finished.
You’ve forced my weak hand,
and I want you to go,
so I can rest like an orange torn by teeth.