Will You Kiss Me After?
How sacred can you make the filth
Right after—
no napkin, no shame,
just you on my lips,
thick and still warm,
your name still coating the back of my throat
like a swallowed prayer.
-
It’s you in my lashes.
You on my tits.
You in my hair—
knotted in like confession,
your fingers left a map and your fluids signed it.
-
Will you taste it?
Taste you
off of me—
suck your own sin from the corners of my mouth,
bite it from my jaw like hunger turned inward.
-
That’s confidence.
Not gym strength—
but licking what you leave behind.
The measure of a man:
how holy he makes the filth
when it’s still dripping.
.
About the Creator
Iris Obscura
Do I come across as crass?
Do you find me base?
Am I an intellectual?
Or an effed-up idiot savant spewing nonsense, like... *beep*
Is this even funny?
I suppose not. But, then again, why not?
Read on...
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Comments (3)
Very sensual and almost feral <3 great poem
Very fascinating poem and well written
Uhm...yeah. I have...words. Words are good. Great poem, Iris! It was very...yeah. (Btw, I'm just teasing, loved it, but it was very striking, very emoting and very powerful in that post-coital, post-sexual lust. Could feel it dripping from each line)