i have a fear of heterosexual intimacy (i'm wrong but still).

i imagine he drills holes in you
while your eyes are closed,
your back against his bedsheets,
and with a clumsy tongue he
scoops from them the best bits of you,
drip-sweet from the
honeycomb catacombs
of your chest.

i imagine he lights matches
against your skin.
and burns your lips, in the name of a kiss, pinker
than i've ever seen them before,
a blood-rush deeper
than when we learned to laugh
even though nobody
loved us.

i imagine that he leaves bruises
with his vein-ridged hands and soft fingertips--

that he loves you clumsy like
a neglected guitar neck,

that he strikes sour notes on your flesh

and composes pages of hickeys in a key
so sad i want to smoke cigarettes and
mourn.

i imagine he swallows your words whole,
so nobody can hear the
colors in your voice
when you sing or when you
moan.
he paints his insides with
your spectrum, and when it begins to 

peel, he touches his tongue to yours and drinks.

i imagine he is hungry, hungry
and never satisfied,
biting your ears in the morning and whispering
your name, whistling your name,
until you crawl back into his den
to let him scoop, burn, bruise, and drink you
again and again

until you are just a pair of socks,
pants,
tank top,
curled up inside-out on his rug.