Skye Wilson is a 19-year-old English Literature student and writer based in Glasgow. This is the first poem she will be showcasing on Aye Hen. Keep up to date with Skye here.
You fill my soul with sweet contentedness,
with pure explosive joy. Your rough voice
in my ear is soft piano music;
it trickles down my spine, like cool water
over a cigarette burn. We crash together.
The crimson on your lips is love or blood or lipstick. Your hands
closing on my throat make me feel safer than anyone
else’s caresses; when your fists tighten in my hair I perceive
more affection than in the sweetest whispers of any other.
My heart beats out your name.
My soul spills out to you, white-hot, and you recoil
from the burn. All I hear in your saccharine, apologetic words
“I don’t love you”,
and that is the only bit that really matters.
My hands shake as I light up in the bedroom
of a stranger- I need to fill my lungs with something
other than fear, and fresh air tastes a little too much like you.