This one’s heart pounds
so deep I can
feel it on his fingertips.
By now, I mock my girlish
notions of love
& listen to the throb for
what it is.

He asks if my heart a
is strong; I say
no, there’s been a compound fracture.
Sewn up with brittle thread,
he runs tongue over scar-mark.

There is an ocean
between my thighs
as he writhes under me,
“just don’t leave a mark,”
I say, neck-bite, & take
pleasure in
the moisture that
hovers on his skin.