From Wrists To Jugular

By:Jenna Prunty

My neck hangs crooked, crinkled on the left hand side scarred wrinkles festering as if it were an infection blistering, a brand of brother rope caressing me on my jawline coarse and strong, his only weakness in knife play fraying the ends of his fragility just as he did to me from wrists to jugular, I hold him among my palms stroking his side with my thumbs I want to feel him kiss my neck again a desperate grind against me the burn of his touch, he slides over me, a snake, seductive offering an escape from reality in a fiery intimacy, confident and dangerous and when he tightens over my scars, my breath hitches, I close my eyes and arc into his touch.