Will You Kiss Me After?
How sacred can you make the filth
Right after—
no napkin, no shame,
just you on my lips,
thick and still warm,
your name still coating the back of my throat
like a swallowed prayer.
-
It’s you in my lashes.
You on my tits.
You in my hair—
knotted in like confession,
your fingers left a map and your fluids signed it.
-
Will you taste it?
Taste you
off of me—
suck your own sin from the corners of my mouth,
bite it from my jaw like hunger turned inward.
-
That’s confidence.
Not gym strength—
but licking what you leave behind.
The measure of a man:
how holy he makes the filth
when it’s still dripping.
.
About the Creator
Iris Obscura
I am many women. I am Iris.
Polite, sane, restrained? No. None of that.
Entropy at 3 am. Dead things stirring in your mind’s eye. Raking through your inner beauty to find something it hasn’t prettied up.
Maybe those.
Sometimes tender.
Read on.
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