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hood of hyundai
taint me, sister rose, with your crimson breath and bloodstained nails
breathe into me an ache that travels to the fine hair on my feet
push me into a drug frenzy, drink of my lips and call me sweetheart
lie back, sister rose, and we'll discuss our sexuality-misanthropy-mentality like never before
and remove our clothes in a state of lightness, like it's all normal and real and true
lift me, whole of body, hold me there above my resting place until I exhaust every cell
and begin again, sure of tongue, crimson of breath warm, engulfing my
fingers/cunt/mouth/breasts/navel/tongue
nails scraping along my alabaster flesh, tracing paths until we are weary
bleary-eyed and entangled
pry yourself from me, sister rose, pour my scent down your throat
and we'll let blades of grass touch our nakedness and close ourselves off from each other
drive home blind and dripping still, fix my mouth to yours again before you fall from the car
land in a flurry of thorns, sister rose, and I'll leave you to open again tomorrow
This is most interesting to me, because there seems to be such a discrepancy between "sister rose" of the poem, and the Chris of reality. It sounds like sister rose is the glorified, ideal partner you had in mind for the first time... or maybe just the experience itself? In any case, the sex seems to be a whole lot more important than the Chris... haha, poor guy. Anyway, it was a refreshing bit of honesty.