Young Writers Society

I feel like Joan of Arc tonight
Here at my execution,
Nobody to witness but strangers
Tired, staked and screaming
Out your name

Water-flight settles in on
My coke-bruised head,
Limp hair tied to your fingers
As you touch my spider legs
Wielded open, I am lifeless
I’m the moonshine
Of your night

Like inked teardrops, you fight
Out from the sky
With gray lips, misty,
Breathless kisses,
My skin, a pallid wasteland
Here is your canvas,
White and virgin –
It’s a lie

Conviction in my eardrums
I’m the maiden
On your cotton bedside,
Hips rocking, seasick and dreary
Ashen and ill, I’m the dust
That blows away

Listless, the fervid lust has
Been beaten down to blotted
Blacks and blues
Penned smudges on my soul,
Covered in leeches,
A lightening fire,
Stonewashed, my face colored
To match the tomb

When you touched me, the white flame
Was smothered with your fingers
And, in the darkness, you fucked
The lasting light