My Venus In His Eighth Constellation Poem by Mitta Xinindlu

He pours into me a drink
from the dark waters of his
depths.
Through the pabptism of sex,
he carefully opens my wounds of fears
to oil them with blood and semen.

Meeting me on top of the burial House,
where sins are slaughtered like cows.
Where resources are gathered as crows
transforming each other into pure gold.
Hand in hand, merging our raw souls.

We give to us a hint and taste of death,
and which we yearn,
or maybe we deserve.
Yet we choose to preserve
our breaths on purpose
For an elongated love, I suppose.

Sex, Sin,
full Worship on my body;
he kneels
and kisses it so boldly.

So what is it then the hidden truth?
One that drives us to deeply love like fools.
Yet cutting each other into doves
of hate
and love.
My Venus in his Eighth.

Our bond is a soul bondage;
matured over a thousand souls in age.
Nurturing each other's wounds
with care, affection, and intimacy as tools.

Trusting,
thrusting,
deeply penetrating into each's Psyche.
Intense obsession,
stalking,
yet genuine LIKES.

Soul marriage;
body ownership through rituals.
Love carriage;
he owns me until and beyond my funeral.
Fact, a resource I give.
I am the treasure that he seeks.

By Mitta Xinindlu