A Certain Hunger - Bree Brandt

the thinner version 

is always with me,

an obsidian shadow.

She is bone-chilling cold

gripping my gut,

daring me to fill myself 

with the guilt rotting in the fridge.

She is silently violent,

a love like belladonna,

beauty marked with a poisonous trade.

She holds out her hand in a matter of mediums,

mothers,

mirrors,

men.

loving Her

is a game of slow death,

a breath of carbon dioxide,

an imploding demise.

Her breath blows 

flesh off bone. 

Her presence is of a deadly ideal. 

Her intimacy is erotica itself,

a declarative sentence,

a known home.

Her sex is a perverse pleasure,

a seclusive obsession,

a parasitic love.

without Her,

I slip from people’s minds,

like cigarette ash in the wind.

without Her,

I am a bitter aftertaste,

begging to be spit out. 

without Her,

I am only dimming candlelight,

hissing into blackness.