The Collector by Amylia Grace

He’s collecting new ways to make me come,
Upside down and backwards
In the park on his face,
The window ledge,
With his thumb on the subway.
It’s all just aerosol whipped cream
On the pout of his fleshy lips
When he muscles down the night sky,
My damp flesh too much cathedral
For such a confirmed agnostic.
He’s collecting new ways to make me come
Which add up to chocolate ants and cherries
On the tone of voice he uses when he is inside me,
(confessions before the guillotine).