by Amy Saul-Zerby

I am Jack’s raging hard-on.
I am desire for you in the midst of the horror movies
that are our lives.

I am staring down the barrel of a gun
and I am not blinking.
I am not good at staring contests,
I’m just not afraid anymore.

I am going to kiss you now: hold still.

I am never going to regret not kissing you
because I am always going to kiss you.

Close your fucking eyes when I am kissing you.

You are wearing your heart on your sleeve
but mine is tattooed on my chest and I am shirtless:
I win, fucker.

I am Angelina Jolie’s Billy Bob Thornton phase:
I will wear your blood in a vial around my neck
and freak out the entire country. I don’t care.

I am Angelina Jolie’s Brad Pitt phase:
I will mother your children and probably end world hunger
with microeconomics and sheer determination.

I am an open book but the book is a mystery novel.

I am choosing my own ending.
I am continuing to page six hundred and sixty six.
I am worshipping my own satanic adventure.

I am going to kiss you wherever I damn well please
as long as it is okay with you
because consent is sexy, and so is your bod.

I don’t have to take my clothes off to have a good time.
But I am damn well taking off some of yours.

I am the happiest place on earth when we are kissing.
because you want to be inside me more than Disneyworld

Kiss the insides of my legs in the dressing room of an Old Navy.
Fall into my thigh gap.

Hold your tongue against mine after drinking coffee.
Baby, that’s a French press.

I am not afraid of Virginia Woolf or of loving you.
I have a room of my own in which I will fuck you.

And then I am going to kick you out of the room so I can work.
These love poems don’t write themselves, you know.

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