by Aria Braverman
(02/28/07)

In the morning there are marks where his need met my flesh under cover of night. Neck, breasts, hips, thighs, a panoply of passion, my body a canvas for his heart of darkness to design. He crawls inside of me and etches hieroglyphics of lust on my walls that no one will ever see, one finger, two, pause -- the first mark could be the symbol of the rising sun, soaring through my shadowed life, driven by his own heat and desire. Three fingers, four, ready for more -- he says he dreams every night that we ride on the edge of a knife, traversing our demons only by holding tight as we fly down the hills of our need. The universe opens to the fist of power that I long for, arriving to turn me inside out, controlled, owned, empowered, free, ecstatic dancers engraved on my tender skin, and I am forced into gratitude, consumed inside another person’s soul. It is at times like this that we learn to live again, wholly, joyously, wildly above, crying out in innocence like sacrificial lambs in the ancient slaughterhouse of love.

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