The truth is…
There never could be just
Not even just three,
In a world this wide
And full of so much blue
And so many stolen hearts.
Not to sound like a harlot (egads!),
But there are many.
I have one for every flavour of me,
And I have more flavours than a complicated hipster ice cream shop.
Some arrive like whispers through my curls that tickle the nape of my neck, nip at my shoulder and curl up around my throat,
Like a spike-studded choker
That hangs there strangling like a vice-grip
That strokes me before it
Sometimes they arrive without my being aware,
And I only notice their deep penetration after they have parted,
And I am left with a lingering sense of empty fullness…
Or full emptiness;
I can never tell the difference.
Sometimes they arrive with too much notice…
Far too much,.
And they get caught in the knots in my hair and the tangle of my limbs and the crush of my heart;
No matter how much I try to rinse them away,
They hold to my skin like a heavy oilslick.
So if you have either kissed
Or kicked me
In any or all
Of my tender spots
At some point in my life,
Then I promise you…
There is a poem
In my expanding catalogue of verse and musings
With your name
Splashed all over it.
***You talk about blood too much, sugar plum. You’re gonna make people hurl.***
***Then look away. I don’t have a tourniquet handy.***