I think: Kiss me
until you start
to believe in god again.
It’s only in my mind
that she takes my face
in her hands
and kisses me until
my lips bleed,
inventing a new Eucharist.
Her hands on me,
turning me into something holy
something new, something
I am not. Even if her hands
on my waist would feel like
baptism, her eyes on me
consecrated, she is not
my god. I don’t believe in god
but I believe that she
could rip me open,
my seraph soul bared:
naked, horrifying, drowning in a light
that’s too much, that burns
every girl who has ever
touched me. She will grit
her teeth through it, jaw
clenched, her skin blistering,
bleeding, aflame. I will beg her
to stop. Save yourself,
you are not a god. You will not
survive me.
I will tell her to Abandon all hope
while her rings burn to bone. She
does not scream. Instead
her hands move down
my ruined shape and I feel
this fire, this damnation,
gripping her hips, scorching
her stomach, chest,
neck, her strawberry blonde hair
lighting like a halo.
She does not let go,
even when there is nothing left.
I have taken her body.
I pray that for her sake,
punishment is not
the worst of what I’ll get.
I know she is not a god
but when the flames die,
she is not ash. She holds
my hips and when her skin
catches fire all over again,
she smiles.
I burn with her.
