Last night I slipped inoutinoutinout of your brain like shattered stardust,
flitting somewhere between depravity and innocence
in a fit of hallucinogenic ecstasy.
You’re a fucked up angel who lacks
the acceptable anger management classes to
be harmless enough to touch me,
but tonight I could really care less.

Just make it hurt, darling.
(We’ll blame it on our combined loveless childhoods.)

Weren’t you the one who brought up sado-masochism last night, anyway?
But then again,
I’m the one sleeping with a sheathed razorblade in my pillowcase,
for old time’s sake.
You just have the sinewy muscled arms to
run lovingly down my spine,
reminding me that eminent danger is just a breath away.

It’s sort of sick how I look forward to lying in a
blissful den of indulgence with you,
tasting chaos in our wake.

Won’t your daddy dearest be proud to see what
(or rather, who)
his darling Catholic son is doing in his spare time?