The Gateway

The screech of the gate now,
fitted her mood,
for she could not rid herself of you,
and she found she was screaming
right on queue
for there was no more falling left to do.

In putting the unholy threshold through,
she had nothing but scars now
on fragile hands
that bent and folded to your every demand
that rolled over and bled upon command
and she could not care
much less
if she were damned
forever
for her part in this.

She threw back her head then
and welcomed your kiss,
though she knew it meant nothing but death –
beginnings and ends were both met
in a single, sweeping taste…

she trailed her fingers across your face
and left her perfume there –
stuck,
like black smoke,
to your skin
and hair.

And the screeching of the gate resounded,
like the sound
of lobster
in a boiling pot…

…to call
these
waters
‘hot’ was not nearly fair…

…by far the gravest danger
was that;
to kill or be killed;
for reward of you,
she dare.