THE CURSE OF RICHE
By Eliza Doten
Your lips are sewn shut. All you can do
is brush your face against me,
let your lips glance across my skin--a tease
for those abused lips, just desperate to part.
It must be frustrating for you
not to be able to dig your teeth
into me, like you think you need to.
So you reposition your head, so that
the tips of your horns are resting on my chest.
I catch a glimpse of gloss on those gaudy horns
as you push them into me.
I know you dipped them in something.
They stretch the skin until it breaks so you can
slide through soft muscle and tissue,
slip them between rib bones.
Do you feel that beating?
Are your temples pounding,
now that you’ve reached the heart?
My veins are burning now.
It was poison, wasn’t it?