Eve's Inkwell

If I could just pretend,

My mind's eye as reality,

I've got my pen pressed to your throat,

Ready to write it open,

Staining your body with words,

Madness manifest about your womb,

Tracing a stencil for things I can't say,

But crave to carve,

Into your flesh,

Onto your bones,

Forbidden fantasies,

Things I'm too foolish to admit I need,

Is that an ink blot or blood,

I love the taste of both on your skin,

Lines of lunacy scrawled over your ribs,

I trace each etching with care,

The ink will wash off,

But the words never will,

A series of sensual stanzas,

Starting at the knee and reading up your thighs,

Eve’s ink well never runs dry,

And neither do my tears,

And neither do the bloody rents in my flesh,

Where you engraved your own heart,

Our fingers speak more truth than the lies that pass our lips.