the weight of the wall
holds the weight of the cross
as you confess your sins of love
you want to talk for hours and hours
until your lungs ache and your tongue sticks
to the roof of your mouth like words you end
the entire session with about the one
whose laugh makes your blood course an extra time,
whose smile makes your cheeks bright berries,
whose hand you wish to hold through the full day or
one tiny little inhale
just to know how it feels.
how greedy can you get?
your cunt is wet and all you can do to help
is stick your fingers in and breathe his name
low, from deep in the depths of your heart
as you orgasm and instantly feel dirty, filthy
for doing that here in front of god and everyone
but you really couldn’t help it, he drives you wild
and you absolutely drip with lust
but you also know it’s not his fault he does this.
you need him. you need his voice
honey dripping from your ears
when he speaks. the sun sets in his eyes and rises
in his hands. you only allow yourself these feelings
in the dark, when he’s asleep hundreds of thousands
of miles away, so you can’t even be tempted to
tell him how you feel about the music he sends.
the way he calls you angel
like you get enough of it.
the way his eyes dart over to you
when he’s making music, like he’s
embarrassed that you love it.
you should be embarrassed that you like
it all him.
he’s no god, but you still place him above it all.
By Jules Descoteaux
Jules Descoteaux (they/she) is a recent graduate of Saint Mary’s College, South Bend, Indiana. Living art and imitating life’s darkest moments, she finds solace in writing, making unprecedented and unpracticed visual art, and attempting to be funny online. More of her work across different genres can be found at julesnjd.tumblr.com.