Sex and Murder Magazine

By Lauren Davis

Night, heavy as a drunk on her back,
asks for things I no longer have.She demands
sleep and dreams and frequent sweated sheets.
Bare flesh, several silk costume sets.
She slurs into my neck requests
for a man, any man, someone to nest
in her black skeleton.I recant how men
broke her, ripped her, targeted all lamps and fires
on her.I repeat how they stole my sleep
and dreams and silks, then shredded them
by cigarette blaze.The moon whispers
to her it’s not true—just as my last lover
would do.We argue till morning slaps
her to the side. before she slams the stars shut,
she reminds me I am of her kind.