Starling

Sex with you
is wreckless,
dar(l)ing.

In less than a week,
you devour weakness

tenderly—finger to finger
you lick me, brush my

rippled nipple, tickled inside
the wash of your lips, teeming.

Your chest tastes hard.
I bite it again, star it until

your ribs bloom scarred caresses,
careless starlings rushed with red,
pin-rips,

until they bleed
a toothed enrapture.

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