he tells you he loves you
and you have to believe him.
because if he didn't you wouldn't be here.
you wouldn't let him inside you like this.
the beast is risen in a lonely church parking lot, between the sighs of hunger,
not quite human.
you tell yourself he tastes like redemption
and he does,
and you taste him on your lips,
your ribcage bloated
with empty promises.
he paints the inside of your eyelids
yellow as the autumn leaves,
and his tongue drips ochre
down your spine
while you stare out
sweaty windows,
catching glimpses of
streetlights and
october stars.
