psychosexuality

all you are is salt.
the syllables of your name,
even wrapped up in cotton,
still carry an acrid tinge.
you are a simple thought,
a complex creation,
bitter and sharp and waiting
for the next moment to strike.
you pounce with sudden
fierce alacrity,
hitting my weak spots
zeroing in on my countless
fault lines.
an open wound, and bleeding,
and iron blood is spilling
like a riptide into the room,
and feet first you jump in
a chlorine dam to break
the will of the body.