The way she picks at the scabs with fingernails like arrowheads
reminds me of the first time she ever held me close
we were laughing like hyenas upon a sad roadkill
enveloped in the scent of putrid affinity
like sex and decay and things dying in the womb
Prompt: Touch. Sort of. I know, this year I’ve been a bit fast and loose with prompts.
Written for OctPoWriMo 2020. 31 poems, 31 days.
Well, the sense of touch recalls intimacy in many ways, and that intimacy, I of course carried into the aforementioned abattoir inside my head. This one struck me as a more obvious one, a more overt encounter and a more straightforward picture; no lofty ambitions of layers, just nudity in essence.