Arms raised in the desert,
Succulent saguaro standing alone,
Purple martin, ground squirrel
And dry scrub, your only companions.
It must be your meaty center
Pulsing with green living juice
That draws me on my hands
And knees, longing for your lusciousness.
Why else would I touch your spines?
Brush my cheek against your trunk,
Red rivulets running down my face
While I plead for you to yield?
Indifferent to my thirst and blood,
Incapable of knowing anything
About this woman and her body.
How you bleed me,
Your barbs lodged deep inside
-- The spines will not come out
Despite my tender (sometimes frantic) ministrations.
I have barred my door
To keep me from my nocturnal journeys,
But I am tenacious and sickly thrilled
By your ancient silence,
Your flowers that bloom in the night.
You may stand a hundred years,
Or I might come wild eyed with my machete
To finish the story, unleashing my inner Kali.
Let the sun bleach our bones on the barren terrain.
by Tara Crowley
inspired by, what else? Tortured Love.
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