I waited at the back of his throat—

waited to hear him confess my name so I could come out from behind his teeth, and defend my claim

over him. Illusory love o’ mine

kept me cleaving to the bitter of his tongue; for all of her disdain he swallowed, I did

wash in, waiting.

We used to get shit-faced, and fuck each other mad, down by the river in

dew slick grass,

monstrous ‘neath the white-gold moon.

He’d give it to me good ‘til I was

howling, and scratching

bloodstained claws at that discerning watch

slung up high in sleeping cerulean.

I waited at the back of his throat—

waited for him to confess my name.

He didn’t.

Every time he chokes, he’s reminded of me.     

Kindra M. Austin is an author (information on her book can be found here), artist, and a Sagittarius Valkyrie from the…