seven devils

  1. i couldn’t stop looking at your hands, so pale
    the street lamps flooded them, lit from the inside
    out. i imagined your tendons, the bones that connected
    finger to knuckle to palm, to my neck.

  2. you found me in the rain. i was lighting
    up the sidewalk, sipping sweet moscato
    while the sky shouldered night. summer
    drops never felt so cool as they did
    when you touched me, when you lipped
    my ear and hissed.

  3. you laughed when i crossed myself, turned
    to quiet murmurs while you drifted
    up my skirt. i tried not to listen till your tongue slipped,
    each lick sending a psalm down my spine. i tried
    to say a prayer but realized i wasn’t
    listening. i tried to turn away but felt your eyes pull.

  4. you struck a match with your teeth, same way
    you struck me. you looked the way i thought
    He might, if He spent His time in cold
    alleys, spinning webs and finding
    ways to push my back to the bricks.

  5. our pupils were blown
    wide, hiding blue iris in dark
    haze. i remember the beginning
    of the night, how we tilted
    towards the floor and couldn’t figure
    how to get up again. i lay cheek to concrete and tried
    to imagine life without you.

  6. when i met you, i could not stop
    blinking. i imagined myself a moon
    tethered to sun, always floating
    in the shadow of your bright.

  7. i’ve been trying not to remember, not to feel
    them as shiver in my chest, an ache
    between my legs. i’ve been looking for a seventh
    and finding mirrors instead.