White knuckle tattoos



It’s alright, my love. It’s alright.
Pummel me in the gut, hard, harder.
Make of me your punch-bag;
my muscles are club-seasoned.
When you come to take off the gloves,
slap my cheeks a raw and furious red.
Blinded by tears let your soft eyes rally
to spit dragon fire at mine.

Kick shins, or the legs from under me.
Martial, merciless, knee me in the balls.
Hold a knife to my tender throat,
watch my crimson bead at its tip.
I’ll take all your wanton woe,
your righteous rage and wronged scorn,
absorb the pain, unseat despair,
then set you free of have, want, exert.

As you come into my embrace
still fist-beating at my chest, quieten.
On the forearm I open to you,
carve your name with a nibbed pen.
Reformed, kiss me on the mouth;
transformed, look me in the eye
and see what you’ve told me there –
that our passion knows no bounds.

It will cry fiercely for what it wants.
What can we do but listen. Whisper truths.
I etch my cursive name into your skin,
permanent ink upon a shoulder blade,
from which murmurating starlings fly.
I kiss your mouth, look you in the eye.
More surely than ever, you know as I do
that we’ll never stop being one another’s.


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