1.
at night he holds me in his vice grip and instead of love i think of these torrid metaphors. i'm a moth in his hand and he used to hold me lightly, but now, used to me, used to me being tamed, his clasp tightens and crushes and makes me yearn to be wild, to break free; his grasp makes me long to throw myself across an empty bed and dream diagonally across it, to lie flat on my back in the lonely dark, to bring strangers to my bed and see how they hold me.