Thoughts With Teeth

[sharpandbitey]

Cream and Honey

She was cream and honey before him. 

If she purred, he bit, if she bit, he left.

He told her not to wear that color, not to use those words, not to leave those notes, not to make those marks. 

But he arrived again and again. No warning, so she waited, tampering, tempering. Breath held at the hum in the dark, an engine clicking as it cooled, a door softly shut. 

His touch was a fever, broken by morning. Cream and honey, scorched to ash and dust all over again.

[cinder-verse-deactivated2025120]

...we are made more than naked

let words be my trembling hands, and silence, the hush between each breath I take from you. Let me undress you not with haste, but with reverence, peeling back the petals of your longing one slow, golden whisper at a time. Let us begin with lips, where the world narrows to a fevered hush, my mouth trembling on the verge of yours: I gather the dew of your sighs, taste the wine-dark nectar of parting, our lips moving in secret conversation… a tide and a shore colliding, again and again. My tongue traces the velvet dance where sweetness unfolds… I steal and return your wetness, drinking deeply from the cup of your mouth, each kiss a yielding, a promise, a universe unraveling upon the tip of your tongue. Your collarbone a crescent moon, a shoreline for my lips to wander. Let kisses be falling stars traced along the delicate map of your skin, each constellation a secret—a promise… written in the ink of my breath. Your shoulders, twin foothills in dawn’s gentle mist, beckon to the pilgrim in me: let my mouth worship the curve of your horizon, let desire bloom there, soft as wild jasmine. Your arms, wrapped in twilight, are branches I long to climb; let me nest within the hollow of your embrace, my kisses the rain nourishing the earth of your gentle surrender.

The slope of your back an endless poem, spine a thread of silk weaving the story of every heartbeat I want to claim with my tongue. Beneath your skin, rivers of pulse shimmer, and I would follow their current, naming each freckle, each sigh, with the devotion of a wanderer longing for home. Let my lips wander over your chest… where breath rises and wanes in moonlit tides, each exhale curving your breasts upward, hillocks veiled in trembling anticipation; I watch their ascent—a slow harvest of desire… soft mounds swelling with each gasp, the dusk of longing flickering in the rhythm of your heaving grace. Your body, a landscape fevered and fragrant… pearls of nerve beneath the surface, quivering for the heat of my mouth, for the slow, molten press of yearning. Let me sip from the chalice of your secrets, let kisses worship where your breath shatters softly, where only the purest night could dwell.

Yet deeper—past the skin and shiver, where the body gives way to the heart’s wild orchard. Let me undress you there, piece by unspoken piece: lay open your orchard of fears and wishes, let me caress each bruise and blossom, tending to every hidden ache with the healing hush of unhurried love. Show me the core where you cradle all the sunlight and sorrow, where your soul lifts its unguarded face toward the rain of my longing… and let me, at last, press into that sacred ache with the balm of tenderness, the wonder of two spirits stripping away all that is not true. Let my mouth be both question and answer, my kiss—an ember kept burning, calling you deeper, deeper, until we are no longer clothed in anything but wonder… until, pulse by pulse, we are made more than naked: we are revealed, soul-flushed and trembling in the wild heart of the night

[inkpressedpetals]

[sharpandbitey]

A bitter, pouty little olive:

You think I can’t hear you, sealed up here in my tear-tinged brine, asking if everyone, if anyone, will like me.

They won’t.

But darling, I don’t like them either.

My tears aren’t for them—they’re for you.

I dream of you, here in my glass cage. The twist of my lid, the pull of your fingers, the deep release in the pierce of your pick.

Sink into me, you heathen. You’ll learn soon enough—they pitted me and I sucked it back in, cradling it here for you.

You want me to mark your taste as special? Earn it. Work me with your tongue, wrest my seed from my core, I’ll salt your mouth and hollow for you. Take this bitter flesh and swallow, let my aftertaste burn with relief.

I’m not easy, but I’m yours.

[cinder-verse-deactivated2025120]

//08A//

A flicker at the edge of my body, a pulse that doesn’t ask for permission. Isn’t hunger just another name for closeness?

I cannot tell where the wanting ends, and the needing begins. My skin does not know the difference… a graze can sting, a sting can soothe, and sometimes I wonder if the wound is the only proof of being held.

What is touch, if not a question asked without words? What is breath, if not the ghost of another’s nearness? Even silence carries its own weight… pressing, lingering, refusing to leave untouched.

I have mistaken the spark for the fire, the tremor for the storm. And yet, in the dark, I cannot stop reaching for the shape of a flame that might not want to be found.

I wonder if closeness is always a kind of trespassing… if to enter another’s orbit is to rewrite their gravity, to mark them with tides they did not consent to.

Do I crave, or do I respond? Am I the predator, or the one who leans willingly into teeth? I confuse instinct for desire, because both leave me trembling, both teach me silence, both write their marks across me like scripture no one else will ever read.

Somewhere inside the blur of surrender, I wonder if I am choosing, or if choice has already dissolved into the ache of inevitability. Perhaps the body has its own prayer… spoken in shivers, answered in scars.

Isn’t the ache of it proof that something has reached me, through the blur of body, through the fog of thought, and claimed me… whether I asked for it or not?

[dykecinema]

there should be a jesus on the cross emoji. not for any religious reasons. just so I can use it for every slight inconvenience.

[handweavers]

there is something erotic about watching someone be extraordinarily competent at something especially if they're also really passionate about it

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— mary oliver

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— unknown; the longevity of life and love (via theblob1958)

[inkpressedpetals]

[a-h-mad-hish]

“Love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared to love in dreams.”

Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

[a-h-mad-hish]

“But your solitude will be a support and a home for you, even in the midst of very unfamiliar circumstances, and from it you will find all your paths.”

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

[putaind3merde]

[raelarkpoetry]

[inkpressedpetals]

[raelarkpoetry]

[inkpressedpetals]