There are words left
Unspoken on your lips,
Written like the lipstick
of some hidden lover.
A crimson hue-
Rich as wine
and just as potent
too. It’s in your heart,
moving with every beat
further through you,
circling, getting richer
with time, ‘til the strength
of it scorns you
and pulses, white
hot, in your veins.

Your heart slows
in anticipation,
watching, waiting.
“Oh, what a delicious burn.”
It has you delirious,
drunk and craving more.
The minds a slave
to the heart
my dear,
and the heart’s a wicked fiend.


Sub Rose/ Under the Rose

Though his lips and their careful caress,
He fills my lungs with his fragrant breath,
And when he parted, it was then that I felt
The small seed lodged deep within my chest.

The stem would eventually begin to wrap
And bind my breath in loving clasp,
And when the leaves would begin to sprout
They’d leave me panting, tickled by the gentlest
of motions. And the crimson petals where a beauty
better left unspoken. But in time the rose would mature,
and become taut over my tender lungs. It would be then
that I would feel the thorns that marred in silence my passions and desires,
and how the perfume of such a sweet flower would burn
my throat and punish my chest every inhale to the very next.

The finger of Harpocrates placed upon my lips
So I could watch with bated breath
The man who silenced me live and love again.
We are forgotten, only when the last root withers.


There’s something beautiful in a tear,
the salty water formed into  a perfect sphere-
that smoulders with all the light that it takes from the room
to burn crystal tracks down your skin, ’til you glow
iridescent, sadness marked in every contour of your face.
It’s almost miraculous how the simpleness of that tear
can transform you and paint the nectar of the gods,
weaving it into your being. And how the once salty taste
of ones own woe can become ambrosia on the tongue
that places you on a marble throne among the immortal,
so you weep to feel more alive than you’ve ever felt.
Because when you weep you are above mortal suffering,
you are free of the confines of the human soul,
and emotion is none, because in heaven love is plentiful
and love is free.
So you watch that small miracle fall from your face,
and roll sweet nectar down your arm, to settle in the dark angry flesh
of your marred wrist- to seal your holy demise.