Breadcrumb #434


i will die like this,
tongue struck stuck against the sky
and your name marked
somewhere along my skin.

but the wolves won't turn,
snout up against the moon to
howl at any atrocity,

there is no atrocity
other than my whimpering,
too fleshy, too blushed,
pink, orgasmic heart, but

blue blood black is the color of my true love's hair,

and the wolves know the women who
run with the wolves, the ones with the
shaggy hearts,
the never splayed,
ventricle veins, plump
and pursing, ever the pucker.

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