I melt, combust and evaporate every time you bring me keloid lime pie.
I know you know we both know what that means. It doesn’t matter where we are, we’re in Florida and you’re lashing me until I get some color in my sick ass white body.
Sorry, I know we agreed to use code. I luv how you always give me a crop top. You tenderize everything in my upper body, and if people need to see it they do and if they don’t they don’t.
You tell me my midriff is all people should be looking at, and I believe you. You say mid is special and special is mid.
It’s so easy to believe the things you say when I watch your tongue, which reminds me of a ferret wrestling a snake. And I think of how your tongue feels on my body and I know it’s not bestiality but that’s just what excites my imagination nowadays.
Thanks to you, I have several congenial diseases. You taught me that’s the appropriate way to spell it. You smile and say disease is how we feel we’re alive.
Any excuse to bludgeon the one you love. I can still hear you speaking the words of John Donne: “Batter my heart, three-person’d God, as yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend, that I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
When I inquire about the three-person’d part, you whisper that’s why you only beat me on Wednesdays.