Emelie Pennington-Davis is a junior with an English and Psychology double major. He loves all things strange and creative; when she’s not embroidering, playing DnD or writing rambling queer poetry, they’re off wandering the woods looking for moss and mushrooms.
Objects of Desire
Genesis 3:19: You are dust and to dust you will return
My darling, I am angry. You asked me last night, in a flash of twilight like an exposed throat, what do you want? and I found I did not have the tongue to tell you. As a woman, I feared desire and as a man, I hid from need. I split my tongue to mimic silent speech, I stitched my lips into an eternal smile. You cannot bite the apple when your mouth does not move. I never thought I would want to speak in my own voice again. And now, I find I cannot. My darling, I am lost. Your eyes have all the welcoming weight of a night-black lake And I wish to wade into the sweet cold until ripples and waterweed pull me down. But the threads across my mouth do not snap easily. Oh, my darling. Hand me the scissors you keep on your bedside table. Let me tie meaning into the blood and spit-stained threads I pull from my face. I don’t want to be silent anymore. For in finding you, I have desire and in knowing you, I have need. Oh, my darling. I want to kiss you, all teeth, no trepidation. I want to lie between your legs, drunk on the musk-mead of your thighs. Your fingers are fine-boned and blunt-edged, like a washerwoman from another time. I want you to wring me like a wet rag, worry me like a shoe in a dog’s mouth. When your thumbs breeze over me, my heart dances like drying clothes in the wind. In your hands, I am clay, red and ready, and you brim over with the anxiety of every great artist. Make something of me, my darling, mould me into a reflection of the cracked and bleeding beauty in your heart. Take your time. And when the last threads peel out of my lips, I want you to ask me again what do you want? And this time, my darling, I will say you.