In church they told us bread became God,
and I almost believe it when
winter air becomes you.
In an insomniac stupor, I close my eyes, and your soul slides
over my body, inside me. I don’t know how you do it,
how you love me from the other side of town,
but it’s the best sex I’ve ever had. I hear things.
Angels singing and Bruce Springsteen saying,
“Hey, little girl is your daddy home?”
“Yes,” I sigh. “Finally.” And maybe it’s all in my head.
Maybe my bed is so filled with dreams of you,
they just can’t help but fuck me. But whatever
it is, I see it like this, you above me, your eyes
burning mine, my tongue on your teeth.
What I know is when I kiss that dent in your throat,
inhale your smell, not the one you got from
shampoo or cologne, but the one underneath,
your animal scent, it makes the wet warm
grow inside me until I can barely breathe.
What I know is your sweat baptizes me.
What I know is your invisible mouth hot on my throat
feels like home.
What I know is you make me want
to fall on my knees and worship.
What I know is I drown in you, go under
again and again and again, stay down, never
come up for air, feel your hands tangled in my hair,
taming me forever.
What I know is you have ruined me for all other men
without ever touching me once.
What I know is it would be holier to be your whore
than any other man’s bride.
What I know is I will always be missing a piece of me
until I have you inside me for real.
What I know is you on top of me makes me see God,
and how can that be sin?
My confession:
Baby, you make a girl think she can drink Jesus from a man.
You make me believe in miracles.
Burlesque Press 