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a thing

The thought of you

Rushes upwards

From the soles of my feet

The candied pleasure I take

From you

Contrasted against my rough

Dark hands and sometimes

I forget my strength

Sinking into the earth

Of union and planting seeds

There and how you soak my

Beard and pinned down

Used with so much want

It becomes a primal brutal thing

We play until we leave marks,

Such a thing you’ve made of me,

Baby girl,

Rough and quiet, sat and soaking up

The skin with the same thirst





By MBBlissett

Writer. Working on book-length projects and posting fiction and poetry here.

You can find more about me here:

Represented by SMART Talent Agency (

I am available for writing projects via my agent, Kelly and I look forward to hearing from you.

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