I know he wants me when I bleed

I know he wants to take me while I bleed.
It is in his persistent comments
about moon cycles and
the ripe fruits of poetry
that drip red juice down his chin.

Submerged into his fantasy
of piercing me during my heaviest flow
cock surrounded by thick blood
god what it must feel like
to see himself coated
bayonet red.

And how better to approach this ideal
of fucking yourself right into a person
of forcing yourself right into another person
maybe through a spear wound,
through a laceration
straight into flesh.

I remember butchering day
the intimacy of slipping my fingers
through the bullet hole
into living flesh
or slipping into the slit throat
still warm
her feet roped and hooked
upside down
blood soaking into the shit and straw
under the overshoot.
Nerves sparked from fingertip
to a stinging in my breasts
burning between thighs and
a dull lump in my throat
trying to swallow itself.
Instead of lust we called it
exploration, science.

Down in Nana's basement
fingers would dig into the brain
as water ran over the severed head,
blood and mucus pouring from the nostrils.
My fingers entered them too
slipping the edge of cartilage
feeling the stretch and give deeper inside.
Always the fascination of a child,
wanting to get back inside
back inside something
surrounded, sustained.

Tonight I kneel like a wounded animal
and he stabs me over
over and harder forcing
the warm blood to run down my thighs.
His fingers paint my ass
with thick prints, belly
smudged with a thin layer
and red drops splatter the sheets
as he pierces into my wound
with everything, everything holy
and I scream
and beg
just kill me
fucking kill me
tears of relief
soak the cloth.