Hell Can Be Sexy

Trailing fingers
engulf our trailing
thoughts.
The flames lick
every inch.
Every inch.
Nothing is left sacred.
Which is to say, everything
is made sacred.
Smoke is inhaled,
desperate breaths.
Fire is in our eyes,
and the irises
are reflecting my red
into his, my wants
into his, me into him,

him into me,
pure ignition.

---

Sore Throat

Climb atop
me and show
me your eyes—I need
to know what you are
thinking.

Get inside
me and show
me how it is
done.

How
do you love me?
How hard
do you love me?

There are too many
sounds in
this world for us
not to make new
ones.

So talk
to me.
Scream
for me.
Whine.
Beg.

---

Biography

Aleah Dye (she/her) primarily writes poetry, tending towards topics of morbidity, love, social justice, and philosophy. She is dreadfully afraid of imperfection and spiders, in no particular order. She has a one-eyed cat named Ivy and a one-track-minded (food!) cat named Rosebud. Aleah hopes to make hearts grow three sizes with her words. Read her latest work via publications like JHHF Review, Kissing Dynamite, and EX/POST MAGAZINE. Follow her @bearsbeetspoet on Twitter.