Salvation In Starvation

Just how hungry am I? You dare entertain yourself with forces whose worries and pleasure you can not, if even attempted, understand.

Hungry enough to strip you bare and then clothe you in the firm grip of hands that know the fine places to touch you, and then the finer places - the places that make you go weak in the knees while anticipation drives your pulse to race and your skin to tingle. Hungry enough to reveal you layer by layer - removing all pretension and lies until you are completely exposed and yet anonymous in the truth of who and what you are.

Naked, you feel everything. Covered in your lovely armour you feel only the hate and love that resonate between my words and the warmth of the light orange flashes send by me into your eyes. They do say, I am quite the surgeon when it comes to soul-deprivation, well this time I am to be likened only to a butcher.

Hungry enough, I find myself, to see just how far you’ll go to find the edge. To see your boundaries - to push you over with one shoving hand while keeping your head above water with the other. Drown you in heat while giving you breath in kisses that never quite end, but move one into another, on lips, neck, curves.

Hungry enough to whisper of things that you’ve often thought of but never let touch your lips. Letting my own self divulge the seemingly innocent myriad of love and affection. Hungry enough to make you speak words that burn when spoken but taste like sweet indulgence. I make you speak of dependence. Dont for a moment think that I have forgotten your past and mine. We are both machinist killers of the contemporary world, psychopaths and psychopants beyond the understanding of the world.

What exactly do you think binds up, the lust we asphyxiate into as love, or the blood we have shed.

Always remember, how and why we met.

Hungry enough to draw out each desire with fingertips that find the most sensitive locality, and just the right timing - just behind your knees, the small timid bulge of the back of your neck, the side of your neck; fingertips that write naughty poetry on your thighs; fingertips that speak in a language you have to lose yourself in to understand.

Hungry enough to trap you. Havent I already done so with poetic injustice? Have you ever been caught in a gaze that knows you better then you know yourself?

Knows which way you’re going to run? Knows where you are most vulnerable? Knows how to go for your throat - and wants you to know she can. And she waits, until the tension is sharp enough that the delicate coiled heat inside of you can be set off with just one touch, one word.

Hungry enough to teach you what it means to be so bad that it feels good - and reminds you that you are, indeed, *alive*.

How hungry are you?