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.
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