my lioness
he called me, like I was
honey-limbed and casually lethal
and ate deserted hearts,
cold as saharan mornings.

but he was the one with
canines communist-curved,
a smile that bit&caught like vampirism. and
he was the one whose words
from his throat to my
teeth to our woven hips,
dragging syllables gaunt.

and I can't tell who
misunderstood more, adrift in
this perpendicular shipwreck.
it's not loneliness
that shreds petal by petal:
..a delicate snow, layered like prostitution..
I can never just let go.

not sure how communism (sickle, at least) got in there. you're giving me a headache.