Love Poems. Today, in the weekly section of Melissa Fry Beasley, enjoy a new wonderful poem: Your Breath. Have a nice week, Yareah Magazine friends.
Your breath is mustard gas.
Spit slung from your flaming lips
burns upon skin like napalm.
You say you love it when
hands tight around my neck
you watch the colors in my face
go from red to blue then purple.
Enjoy seeing my eyes slowly pop then roll
to the back of my head,
feeling my body go limp beneath you.
Words that refuse to veneer
dance across wrists,
slashing into legs and stomach
scattering angels to the almighty.
Separated entirely from the sounds of the world.
Draining down into suffocating stillness.
Creating a hurt that whispers like the wind,
twisting me to pieces in the night.