You are too bold, they said.
Do my words sting?
does your blood rise from fury from the flow of truth uncouth?
does my release from years of tormented silence shrivel your manhood?
does the blood coursing from my ripened tongue turn your flesh cold?
as the color gushes forth unbidden from this ocean
I brew magic everyday
on this ebony canvass divine
destitution and death from this body of mine
I have kissed every crevice,
spoken lovingly to the darkened parts,
serenaded it under the starry moonlight
and awoke it with kisses at dawn…
i have loved myself to life,
with every birth and breath of mine,
to have you rip me apart again.
He hated it. The strength of my tongue
like he taught me to tame it. The fire that burned beneath my chest….
like he taught me to make a feast of my mother’s silence.
This wanton tongue of mine,
fashioned from the oppressed eyes and sighs of the supple bodies
sharpened edges doused in the tears of my women passed.
This tongue will no longer hold this weight.
She will soar free with no fear.
I will no longer swallow myself
to provide nourishment
for your fickleness
On this bed…..
i have tasted those lips,
sealed our fortunes with a thousand kisses.
I traced your very lifeline with my tongue,
etched my name on your being,
now you wear my imprint on your soul
Adorned to the heavens with my wiles
On this bed…
I have choked on your distance
cowered from your heated malice…
i have bitten down on this tongue that once pleasured you…
On this bed.
i watch your strangeness make a home
On this bed.
I do not have the luxury you see,
A foreign soul in this ancient continent
to dance my wiles away.
See my worries accompany me as i sip this drink….
The hopes of my parents sidle next to me,
intertwining their aching fingers with mine, drowning all else as i try to loose myself in this dance.
My only escape,
Your mouth on mine…breath on skin…sweet respite.
i do not have the luxury to linger in this sweet place…
For i am burdened by my parents prayers
dragged even to the concrete jungle.
for you see, my respite has no place here,
in this foreign continent i tread on.
I will make of these weary bones,
creaking and fragile to the touch,
sweet melodies from beyond Valhalla.
Music of life shall i make from the embers of Death;
conjuring sweet poetry from these ashes
to sate you.
From these cinders,
will your soul will get its fill.
within these embers,
ambrosia shall burst forth.