La Petite Mort / Kiana Sarmadi

Blazing, I Splinter. This sudden streak of red that bursts the darkness asunder—clashing each bone—shattering the cord—where do you begin? In this torrent of tenebrous fires, I have lost you. There, sheathing the glittering orbs, your touch slackens each lid—behold—my Rohan drenched in blood, how you thrust to breach—my cataracts succumb to the force that sprouts the flickering sapling, its shadow pricking my cheeks, inviting the carmine stream to rush over my numb skin. It softens the tissue—as it was—under that warm dusk—your flaming locks melting into the searing sun—veiling the rest of your person as it glides—lips, tongue, my breasts grow inside your mouth—What are you, suckling me dry? 

A shiver snapping my sinews—and I cannot find you—Entirely—eroded—

Your small hands clutching my bosom that emanates a black venom—freezing—I sense the wriggling in your little skull—inflamed as my womb crowded with maggots. Your flesh, withered in mine, ignites yet another flame, flickering in my veins, surging upwards—

There, —it stops—, faint and phantom-like, the fugacious foliage of the cypress ascends into my nostrils, seeking a lush calvaria to spread its shadow—but—look—; blithely she tears the flesh apart, rising out of my chest with a gasp—Melinoë presses her impregnated weight against mine, bursting into a myriad of pomegranate seeds that force me open to her touch—fingers rinsed in the nectar steep into each veil, your earthy breath whispering in this ear; 


 But…Which ear? Assailed by a wavering procession of timbres, colours, tones, each holding a syllable, they mutilate—ringing, pulling, penetrating sharply—each limb—the fall of blood on their spalls breaks into that fine mist—elevating us to the promontory—under this scorching wind all assist against me…

Oh, where have you abandoned me my love?  

You transfix me—palsied—I await your piercing touch—uniting against them we merge. Is this you parting the lips, growing large in my throat, sealing the abyss—is this you swelling inside—soaking the films—

I have found you. Immolate this flesh. – choking, no gasp reaches them—they have all deserted us. Your person fills my cadaver—

Let the flames smother—Gorge us—quite, Ravenously.

Kiana Sarmadi is a blog correspondent for Acta Victoriana. She lives in Ontario, Canada. 


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