When I say that I’m like a fine wine
what I really mean
is that I’ve been aged to perfection
and your tongue will touch my bitter and my sweet
with hints of sun-kissed blackberries
and fresh vanilla cream
before I hit the back of your throat
and leave your mouth watering
with my scent lingering on your lips.

Forget the half-assed love
full of maybes and somedays and not yets
or the coy enchantments
between a fair maiden and her young prince.
Give me a feral love
one that has fur and fangs
and calls out to me
in an ancient and familiar howl
erupting from the throat of the divine.
One that walks a thousand miles
across a barren desert
with bloodied paws
just to find me
and lay offerings at my feet.

I’m not saying that I want you to worship me
but what I am saying
is that I want my body to be your temple
and I want it to be the only holy place
that you ever want to pray to
and kiss every last piece of me
until you reach the honey
that’s been so carefully guarded
by my sting.

I want you to be the ocean
and I want to be pulled into your tidal waves
until you’ve smoothed me into sea glass
while the moon watches us
with lustful eyes
and then I want to be the nightingale
that sings the sweet trembling morning song
to your sun
after our wild lovemaking has left us
delightfully ruined.

And once the morning comes
and once I’ve finished dancing in the ashes
of everything we’ve set on fire
and everything we’ve burned away
and I’m covered in sweat and tears and muddy feet
all I want
is for you to get down on your knees
gaze across the tundra of my body
and tell me
I look like a fucking Queen.