Fabricated Sorrow

What is it, about being a woman
that drives us, to feel lust
nay, neediness, longing, expectations
of the opposite sex
to WANT, to need, to succumb
to loving us?

It’s like taking the first hit;
wanting every moment
to inevitably feel like the next.
A drug of the heart, a survivalist’s wet dream,
suddenly the nightmare of the other.

I loathe the void I’ve created
within the absence you’ve brought;
the coward who parades around
as a hearty lion, navy suit astounding
the driver of slumber long deceased
brought back to life in a dusty dream.

Nothing is everything,
it all resonates like bass hitting a temple
wishing for change, but unwilling to understand;
the dance slowly dies
as the reality of one love lost
bites the dust, of poetic abstinence.

Heed a lonely cry, in the distance
a single ring on a finger
symbolism of something so untrue
it might as well be dead.

I’ll die too young
to see the fruition of your honesty.

Small Truths

Gentle words
Hard touch
Pull me closer,
Hold me down

My neck at your mercy
Diligently breaking
To rebuild ourselves anew
Primal needs met
With moans and bruises.

Spread, lick, fuck
Enter, exit, fill
Understand.

Beautiful love, sweet caresses
Gracious deliverance
Abandonment in lust,
True natures present

Through growing pains
Fulfilment

© 2018 Lilith Ember All Rights Reserved