by Jack Tinmouth


I – quiet’s unbuckling as
mass collides with mass;
making fissures of skin.

His fists; meteors –
determined to make this
body seem beautiful.

So, I get a black eye…
a little blood in the mouth;

he kisses me to taste his own violence.
He kisses me to tell me I’ve lost.

Leave a Comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.