The Writer and the Boy

The writer and the boy
Such a simple thing
Cliched in its own way
She turns and faces him
Eyes wide as the moon
Irises can't be seen
Just trying to find some light
In his black room
Not unlike the dark
Inside her pen
Her expectations are
Of the stories she writes
They are from her imagination
She silently hopes he makes it real
And she'll scream the names
Of her own characters
"I don't want to write tonight"
She says, "The words elude me."
He thinks for a moment, and clothes disappear
He holds out his hand
"Then give me your pen
and blade, and then
I'll write the words out for you"
For once she was glad to surrender them
Her skin became his pages
And words like love
And lust and blood
Were woven in his tale
That stretched across her legs and back
And to her very core
Her fingernails wrote the words on his skin
Her sensual substitution for a pen
They wrote the story together
She smiled, he screamed
She began to bleed
As the story became an autobiography

-Andi-