Destruction does not come in armor,
it comes in a summer dress.
It comes barefoot on warm concrete,
tan lines and a mess
of dark hair falling forward,
of bitten lips and brown eyes
that hold you down without touching,
that undress you in disguise.
Destruction is a woman tonight,
standing in my kitchen drinking my wine,
running her finger through the candle flame
like the heat is nothing, like the burn is fine.
She sat on my counter, legs swinging slow,
and the hem of her dress crept up with each swing,
and I stood there pretending to cook
while the wanting ate through everything.
She dipped her finger in the sauce
and sucked it clean while holding my stare,
and the sound of it, the wet little pop,
cracked the last of the rational air.
I burned the dinner and I did not care,
she jumped down from the counter and walked slow,
pressed her wine-stained lips against my neck,
and whispered something only the desperate know.
And I let the pan smoke and I let the alarm sing,
because destruction was standing in my space,
wearing nothing now but the candle light,
and I went willingly into her grip.