Not nice, but what I meant to say


Lust claws me hollow. Hunger is desire
is need for bite scratch kiss. My skin stretched sore
with unborn things unuttered. Cunt’s a door
rage batters from inside. I never tire

though ache in every limb so unfulfilled.
I like to think I love, believe I do.
Yet yearn for touch that fits as foot in shoe
with toes that wiggle. When my heart is stilled

then ends sweet torment but for now the rack
I wind and suffer, bone creak sinews torn
pain is my last best fuck. The skin is worn
to tatters where I writhe upon my back

Crone out of nightmare, pants and sweats for hours.
Unsatisfied unlovely fierce. Devours.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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