I bought cheap lingerie and
you worshiped me like a goddess,
making offerings with
you yearn for the way I smell when
I wake up covered in sweat—
you sound the way that red wine tastes, smooth and dark
and full. I drink your voice straight from the bottle. I drink it until
I am dizzy with your words.
You and I
are not temples—we are
Late Eclipses in the Sun and Moon
I was born in a thunderstorm and
vast clouds roll in my lungs, my stomach, my heart—
lightning strikes from the coils of my hair—
sparks fly from my open lips—
he says he can feel the storm brewing when he kisses me.
I was born a ticking bomb and
he should run, because I’ve been reading the omens
and I’m due to explode any day
and leave the sky all red like a scab
on the knee of the universe.
I was born a bird of prey and
he’d better invest in a hood and bells—
I may be a wild animal but
every soul can be tamed and for once,
I don’t want to be
alone. He says
he can feel the storm brewing when he kisses me,
and he says it like it’s a good thing.
Kayla Allen is an English major at Northeastern University. Her writing has previously appeared in Spectrum Literary Arts Magazine and the Teacup Trail.