My breath is held hostage by fear of touch,
so long I have Stockholm Syndrome and have
evolved with full-blown gills along my ribcage.
I turn blue with you.
I swim upstream in currents of your memories,
all the time.
The woman I wanted to be, died somewhere
inside the girl you found, and couldn’t keep your
hands outside of.
Your waves slam against the shores of my dreams
and run red inside nightmares that quietly bubble up
throughout my days.
She said she loves, she does.
The ink on your arms, like a River Styx through
my life. When they said writing on yourself would
give you ink poisoning, I never thought of how you poisoned
Now we share a love of skin art and women, like
you planted seeds of pleasure in my guts.
The flick of a tongue.
A finger in and out and whispers;
so many fucking whispered pleadings.
Tickled my gills.
Know this – the fish I have become is so fierce,
so frozen, blue – with you
so trapped by my hate – of you
constantly tied and bound – to you
Sarah Frances Moran is a stick-a-love-poem-in-your-