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Canticle of a Bored HausfrauTo Marie Lecrivain's previous piece     F---ing in Sidereal TimeTo Marie Lecrivain's next piece


Here we sit at the edge of possibility.
You are holding me tight
like we are already adrift, instead of on the verge,
whispering cruelty in my ear.
My hands love to sweep from the top of 
your silvered head
over the pale, hewed-out columns of arms
around the narrow waist 
to the legs that stride so confidently with me 
down the road of this relationship.
You have fuel.
I have the spark in my eyes to kindle the 
the fire we burn our passions in
and reduce 
the very world around us to smoldering ash.
It's not enough-
You want me to hurt you.
Words fall from your lips,
dull crimson and yellow
leaves from the tree of your soul,
shedding it's foliage for the time 
of deadly repose.
I feel the frosty edges of you crackle in despair
as you look to me for release from the pain.
I cannot do what you ask-
Brand your flesh!
Rip skin from bone!
Wield the lash to open gashes to set those demons free-
reduce you to so little 
you become the man I don't want-
and I become a victim of your circumstance.
It hurts more-
to extricate myself
from your embrace.
Walk the road alone,
than reach into the depths 
for the monster you want to create,
as proof of my devotion.
It was not enough for me to merely love you,
It was not enough.

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