Prose: As a Lover, never once have I Survived, never once

My face had gone pale before.
Where my heart would rest was exasperation,
and I have sung.
I have sung songs of being swallowed whole,
my smile cut out with a scissor.

But on this night I soaked our lungs in mountain air,
held the blackness of it all in our arms,
watched morning crawl over the hills
and into our mouths.

I was alive, but never once have I survived.

Until now my bed has been shared only with scorpions,
and my hands with snakes. My lips made to chew on.
My head made to sink.

I had doubted his existence.
I had.

And now I have tasted every part of him except blood,
the blood which makes him move
like dandelion chutes in quick whipping wind,
the blood which makes his face
which makes his lips that color to kiss with.


I didn't survive on a vanishing afternoon.
I watched the plants soak and they watched me,
all envious of the ticks that had hatched
in the warm weather and rain.

For if I were a tick I could leave with him.

I could latch to the sweetest part of his flesh,
and travel unnoticed there,
touching him, my small teeth,
tasting his blood like a lover would.