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Blindfold her tight, not to allow light.
Strip her slowly.
Lay her on granite couches clothed in velvet.
Tie her limbs with maroon sash.
Offer her drinks flavored with peppermint and sweat.
Kiss her forgotten parts.
Whisper her to her.
Allow her black cat to pass, without fret.
Raise her gently.
Untie her from restraint.
Hand her the riding whip.
Ask her to drench your wounds in peroxide.
Remind her there is no safeword.
My skin cracks into
a thousand snake-scales.
Blood-horny hyenas
scatter sideways,
in every direction,
like summer lightning
across coal-grey plateaus.
I climb down my
mountaintop, as it is safe
on the backside.
shuts tonight, hiding
her eyes
from mine.
She claws
deep-veins
into concrete walls.
A mattress is nailed to the door,
muffling the cries of
a mutilated cat.
My new infatuation
bathes upstairs
in my tub. Unaware
of the love
I keep locked
in the basement.
Zachary C. Bush, 23, is a writer of poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and magazine features. He lives in South Georgia with his two cats: Luna and Tic-Tac. He is the editor of two small magazines in an even smaller town. He feels that good poetry is raw poetry.