First time you were young and naïve.
I was old and tamed by years of marriage.
False memories captured in black and white
on an analog tv with a coat hanger for an antenna,
picture flipping, cut by horizontal lines, blurred by snow.
Your mousy hair and unpainted face, still girl like.
Nervous kissing, clumsy foreplay,
suit on, tie tied, unzipped fly.
Skirt hiked up, bra unsnapped, panties pushed aside.
A few rough thrusts then release onto your soft smooth belly.
Me conditioned by my marriage bed,
you lacking experience.
You don’t know what you don’t know, and we didn’t know how bad it was.
The suicide was just as bland,
wanting too much to die,
understanding life so little.
Tepid rhododendron tea – a meek response to life’s disappointments.
Chosen to avoid pain.
Tunnel vision, bright light, nausea, fatigue.
Abject suicidal failure.
Second time you were old and jaded.
I was young and adventurous.
Nostalgia captured on film with all its imperfections – overexposures and scratches.
Sensual colors dripping from the screen –
your lipstick too red, your eyes too green, your skin too pale.
Bottle red hair hiding dark roots.
I pay my coin, you play your role.
Red and blue neon signs blink and buzz in the night.
Hot wax dripping pain –
shallow echos of the life I crave.
Handcuffed to your brass bed, my pale naked body exposed for your amusement,
but all joy has long left your soul as your stockinged thighs hold my head like a vice
while you mechanically grind your pelvis.
The stale smell of your sex,
my smothered face.
Your hands rip my member from its root,
lust turned to hatred.
This suicide was cliché,
expecting the pain to be penance for a woeful life.
A rope hung from a hard maple on a cold winter night.
A naked body twitching and yearning for air.
The snap of the branch in the cold night,
a pale naked body writhing in the snow.
Third time’s a charm.
You in your prime, confident, oozing sex.
I’ve discovered my lust for life.
Our affair is an endless looping enhanced digital universe of hyper realism,
no beginning and no end.
Your electric blue eyes search my soul, taking note of my desires, and my weaknesses.
Your long raven hair of silken delight
reflecting blue and green and purple as it slides across my body, teasing, caressing.
You tie the knots.
I smell the earthy aroma of wet soil on a spring morning,
my skin itches against the wet grass.
Intricate ropework binds me tight.
Suspended from a mighty oak,
I stare up to the heavens through a tapestry of green
turned black against a blood red background as I close my eyes in prayer.
The silk cords cut my skin as blood flows.
Life requires passion, and passion requires blood sacrifice.
Your oiled copper skin gleams in the sunlight.
Your bronzed purple nipples erect with excitement as you admire your work.
There is no rush.
A laugh escapes your lips,
delighting in my torture.
Your body, taunting and teasing,
delighting in every twitch of my body and moan of my soul
as I remain defiant.
You lead me to the precipice
before whispering in my ear “No”.
You have woken me from my sleep.
I am more alive than ever.
I don’t want death,
I don’t want an end.
I struggle against my body to no avail.
You plunge the knife deep into my chest and rip out my beating heart,
eating my flesh and drinking my blood.
Your body shining slick in crimson,
passion requires blood and death requires life.
The suicide is vivid, painful,
a worthy sacrifice.
You cannot die until you truly live.
I step out of time – in death I find life.