Getting Intimate with Death Revisited

Even though I was so sure
That I had rid myself of him,
he still has a power over me,
an inexplicable hold.
I am no longer always so very aware of his presence
in my deepest hunger,
but I still rush towards him
in small increments, selling my soul
piece by piece, letting him
kill my spirit slowly,
gradually.

I encounter him recently,
often,
again and again.
We come together quickly,
feverishly,
lips meeting hungrily, almost
violently.
He'll run his hands across my ass;
before I know it my sweater will be around my neck:
breasts loose, free.
He'll tweak a nipple and
I'll run my hands across his crotch,
undo his belt, pull down the zipper.
Even now, I always
take an active role.

We meet as animals:
primal and fierce.
Our encounters are brief, almost
meaningless at times.
Afterwards I am always left feeling
less than.
I give up, I give in, I give away
oh so much.
I let him steal
so many bits and pieces.
Increasingly,
I ache to free myself
from my sick obsession,
to rush towards the answer,
to embrace life like the long-lost lover,
rather than continuing to rush
towards all that will,
in the end, only
kill me.

copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews