You creep through my window knowing the warmth of your flesh is an open
invitation. In the dark all I feel is the points of your skin spreading over mine,
whispering stories of tenderness in my ear, licking the beads of sweat from
my neck while fingering my
remote looking for a distraction, a meditation, medication for your boredom
as I sink between your legs half masked by the buzz of channel 8 nine and
Crown
anything to help you escape.
I do not notice or care about the knife you slide in ever so
urgently and expertly nor
the blood gathering in my ears, hot like tears, forgotten as orphans.
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