Pistol for an Addict

this one devours you: she is a grave
heaving for your stars like your hand blistered
upon a bright-red stovetop at six — enticed and suffering

faith you’re beaming, before the chorus rises,
to breathe in her subtleties. her dirge. it’s the basement

of her ways, the body

curves in unusual strands to become a stranger
and an excuse for a feast upon the loneliness. you carry
yourself blessed — a sourskintaste calls you junkie.

at first it was just to quit her. spins dreaming a place
like this one, with a winter to hold her hand or bite

records of coy into her neck. perhaps your mind felt cooler.
enough to devour a repertoire of sex and the way her grand-
mother taught her to walk in heels. a delicate force. heroine-hunger

madness bathes your insides, the way bells carry on —

they clang lust loudly, and the gnashing weeps a man’s throat dry;
the newness of all is dust claiming your selfhood. shine deeply.

there is no reservation for the lover once captive — she is your moon hungry.

the smell intoxicates
and her hair tangles
inside the pockets of your lungs.

Like it? This is the fifth piece from a poetry collection titled “Moon Hungry”, a chapbook in-works by AM Elliott.

Find me on Twitter!