Blasphemy

I do not think I have ever belonged to someone so completely and unmistakably. You–you dissect my body, dig through me as though you are reaching into my life and renewing the fire of the ashes of my cremation. I am gripping your shoulders because I want to meld my skin to yours, and your hands burn something between my thighs… your black handprint, searing your mark of hell into an innocent place, and you should not be here, you are a demon and you are dragging me into the pit. No… not now — now my concept of God is shoved to the foot of the bed to make room for our pleasure, in the pages of a book I used to love. In my tremor beneath you, I watch that book — it is only a book, right now, only some long-forgotten concept, and good riddance. The blasphemy inside me doesn’t matter here. Your skin matters here, your body that I wish would travel through my own and into my spine and then into my intangibility — oh, but you are also tangible, and that is also good. Our rhythm matters here.

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