Fantasy

Confession: I dream of terrible things
I would love to do to you.

On some instances you are pinned to silken sheets. On others
I am the one trying to breathe. Sometimes you will try to kill me.
In all occasions everything happens quietly;
the only sounds are those made by our chests, by our hearts
beating at our chests, and the unreliability of our breathing.

How much they consume me: these visions
of fucking you over and over. Because I am an artist
in these dreams I am painting your skin
with bruises. I am tracing the taste
of something both frightening and familiar
on the thin edges of your mouth. Nothing is to be trusted

in these dreams. Even that part where
I am taking every inch of you with a swiftness
granted only to hands like mine. Hands
calibrated by years and years of practice
painting faces of strangers. Giving you
something to look at. Something that is not real
but is infinitely more beautiful than the original.

I am an artist. In my dreams I am tracing a smile
across the thin edges of your mouth, unmaking every inch of you
until all you know of wanting dries into
the sharp edges of my name.

i.e. this poem = what happens when you fantasize too much about someone. AHAYHAY. Haynaku, porno.