by Amanda Reck
I know exactly what you'll do when you find the scar that sits above my breast. The left. Whisper, "baby, baby." My skin there is so thin, like wax on paper held up to light. You'll trace the ragged, red line as if it were a map — useless, when you can't see in the dark. Catch the moon, if you can. I'll snatch it back, clad in this troll's skin and eat it like a hot, white heart. I can smell what you fear: the snap of jaws, a trail of blood on white, the search for movement on a frozen hillside, your reflection in pupils as sharp and cold as obsidian. When you kiss me, it's hard not to break the skin where your blood pulses hot, as if you'd been running, your footprints pressed into the snow, your breath coming fast, your mouth open wide. Bend back, pant, shed your slick, warm skin. I'll steal your scent, press its tang into my pores. Follow my scar: its line will lead you to my teeth and claws, gaping jaws, wide enough for one to sweep the sea, one to touch the sky, to eat the earth, swallow it whole, like a river stone. I have devoured a god, and still, it's not enough. Smear your face with honey, I want to whisper, catch my tongue with your teeth. But you're not the one I want to trap me. I'd kiss the sugar from your cheeks, then lick your moon-white bones clean.
Amanda Reck is a recent graduate of Johns Hopkins University, where she studied poetry, Russian, and history of art. Now living in NY, NY, and expanding her work list to include associate editor, sales rep, PR rep, and project director for a non-profit, she's also tired of people saying, "Poetry? I didn't realize people still did that." You can find her work in Falling Star Magazine, Locust, and Measure Press.
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