His hand on my throat
-
I supped at his seduction
Scant morsels
To feed my hunger
Ease the ache inside
-
His hand on my throat
-
Scooped out all of my insides
Offerings
I piled at his feet
Oh he wouldn’t stop me
-
His hand on my throat
-
His fingers squeezing tighter
On pulse points
Draining all colours
Till stars come to play
-
His hand on my throat
-
I bend my body to fit
In his grooves
His thumb in my mouth
Power spilling out
-
His hand on my throat
-
They say the all mighty gives
But he takes
Is there compromise?
Ecstasy or pain?
About the Creator
Kristen Haveman
A dabbler, a story teller.
Keep reading
More stories from Kristen Haveman and writers in Poets and other communities.
Winterthorne
Winterthorne stood alone at the edge of the park. The beautiful snow that had surrounded him was all trampled now, from the feet of all of the children who had built him. He missed the sparkly clean snow blanket, but he was happy that so many children had come out to make him.
By Laura DePaceabout 22 hours ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
The imagery is so vivid it almost feels like watching someone slowly lose themselves. It’s powerful writing. Do you usually write from personal emotion or pure imagination