Writhing. Pain.
Twitching hands.
That initial trickle of blood you left me with.
We danced in slow motion,
I couldn't see a thing. But I remember hands.
Your hands found me. All over they found me.
Sometimes we choose to forget the sin,
Pinned to our mortality by our foremothers.
Just a bite of that red round apple,
Sweet, crisp taste on the tips of our tongues,
The foam, that drips off the corners of our lips,
And we readily take it all in. Inch by inch.
Surrender and sweltering pain, that thing you did to me.
Under that tree.
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