(A dark but true poem I wrote a while ago. I believe this is the first time I’ve posted it anywhere.)
A touch. A tickle.
The slick soft scales slither round and wrap my throat,
You are dead. You do what dead things do.
The muscles constrict,
A pulsing heartbeat of destruction,
Cramping down in filthy thoughts
I cannot breathe.
What is breath?
I do not breathe.
but thoughts aren’t enough.
Sex, and sinuous sensual seduction,
Cold and dead and all the things that bring to die.
I am I, and I am owned.
“You are not me.”
The muscles shudder.
“I am not me.”
The weight withdraws.
“Now I am He, and He in me, and I will breathe.”
The scales slip off, the tickle remains.
Another time, sheep.