Soaked through with his quiet, pressing sweat,

I am crushed into myself.

My lungs come through my lips into his and

He breathes in my loathing,

Holding my spleen in his grip.

It is here that I am inundated with the flow of Ourselves,

Here that I find my completion,

Here that I can feel my own trembling self in his shoulder blades.

His angles seep into my recesses and for a moment we nearly fit

Like a puzzle,

Like a crossword,

Like a lyric,

And then it is lost.

The kisses come easy; the secrets do not.

They lie in the crumpled clothes on the floor,

A churning sea of sin and desire.

It is here, in the still, in the detachment,

In the half-lit blinds and fallen posters

And silent bedposts

That I find my rebirth.

I am a goddess as long as he longs to hold me,

And when he does not,

He will never have to know my depravity;

He thinks he has made me whole.

He thinks he has made me complete.

He thinks he has given new life;

I have simply taken his.

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