It fits like an oven glove
Fingers first, then
Part of my hand,
Only the heat is
On the inside, not out,
As I plunge into
The oven that
Scalds me,
No bread-crumb trail
To lead me back
I am consumed,
Doomed by my
Own desire,
All too willing
To submit myself
To the witch’s will.
It fits me just
Like an oven glove
As I dive head first
Into the abyss,
Drowning myself
In its warm, moist
Interior with
No desire to
Rescue myself.
It fits around me
Like a glove
A soft embrace
I ache for
More and more
And more
And it is still
Not enough.
No comments:
Post a Comment