Suffragette

Orpheus vomits while Cotton Mather checks the ropes and the kindling--Both take one last breath of howling silence before biting into your tender flesh--tasting the subtle difference between you and me.

I embrace your scent, your visceral power, it reminds me of my weakness, the dread I'll need to overcome so as to witness all the little deaths, stomach my compassion before I take my last stand. In the end, as always, I will taste you long after you have gone, on each fingertip a different story of similar places, yet, none of them my own.

I press my hands against my skin, your history dissolving into each one of my scars–I pay close attention to myself, stop at every sensation, visualizing every slash you made, every kiss you stole, every intention you inflicted, the innocence you devoured, the children you abducted. You cut me to see if I were still alive, removing only the sinew--So kind of you, leaving the necessary intact. I am still breathless from the punctuation of such a bitter memory.

I lower myself into the waters of the damp feminine, see my depth of field rize–I am not your puppet, nor your dwarf, surely not your muse. Your blood I will drink, washing down your seminal dreams. I will devour you, unrestrained, spew your finite, redefine your non-zero.

Your formulae's and sexualization have made a better woman of me, and, a stronger man. I am not linear, I am alive–quantum flex in the dark confusion of mankind.