hypoxia

there’s a darkness in this room, out the corner of your eye, something i don’t want to witness, stuck on the far side of something so intense and sacred, something beyond my age, you mention, wide eyed with kitten smile.

i see it in my mind; this isn’t a love scene, this is a crime scene waiting to happen, my blade gleaming in the moonlight sun.   heavy breathing, heavier by my hand on your neck, your lack of oxygen, your red face and tearful eyes, your orgasm, your flushed, goose-bumped skin, hiding this strange way you’re wired, strange fires that burn deep, not passion but more in the fashion of stubbing cigarettes out on your arm and hoping it feels good; some strange kind of kick that i just don’t get, some limit i don’t want to test. beautiful and precarious, no air from the neck up, i guess you’re fucked up in your head.

i’ll never understand this dark desire, this gentle art of choking that you call love.

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