The Sound of the Knife

theotherpoems:

There’s a strange kind of perfection
in your torn clothes, symbols
of your surrender, 
your willingness to be exposed
on my terms, 
a beginning of a taking more raw
than the romance of the evening hinted at
before I reached for the knife. 

Ah, the trembling! 
As the blade slid down each curve, 
as it cut the cloth like butter
and revealed your skin
and your fears
and the depth
of your devotion.