to spring-clean late in the year

I have a love,
it’s ten storey’s high.
It towers,
achingly aware.
Exposed and unshielded.
It has sturdy walls,
in a determined sort of way.
Earthquake weather safe.
Its appearance is a little dated.
There are marks and cracks and bruises
that speak of vandalism
and a rough neighbourhood.
But please step inside
and have a browse
at all the pretty veins.
The doors are wide open
to allow for easy access.
There’s a room with velvety cushions,
that mold to bodies like tongues
and embrace like lips
and gentle arms,
begging for you to take off your shoes.
She wanders its corridors,
my queen of joyful whispers,
watching you come,
making you come,
then watching you leave.
She’s awkward in the mornings
whilst watching your limbs climb into clothes,
aching to climb in with them,
neatly tucked into your shirt.
And she draws the curtains when you close the door,
wishing you’d stayed for supper.
She lives on her own.
It seems the safest choice.
She sweeps out the mess you leave
and sings lullabies
in her crying shower.
She holds a key to the dungeon
where the fierce creatures dwell,
with their fangs
and their claws
and their chains
willing you into their clutches.
To keep you near.
Without the fear
of losing you.
If you can handle it,
she’ll open the door
for them to lunge,
to eat from you
and to feed you back.
To tear you open
and to lick your blood
into a clean wound
that will heal into a smile.
And she will lick her lips
while watching yours
and prepare for her next visitor.