Paramour, My Lover

A poem written for and inspired by Real Toad’s “Sunday Mini-Challenge: Paramour“, the amazing challenge written and designed by Brendan over at Oran’s Well.

(photos of eduardoizq)


It is like shedding light, and looking into the mirror

Naked and burning and unashamed in fever

Drop the platitudes you hide in like you

Dropped your panties onto the tiles.

Drop the cage you have lived in like you

Dropped your bustier.

Touch your curves not shyly but curiously

Looking at your body like he does. Look at it

The way you always should have, through your nature—

That wild forgotten forest.


The ever present burn he has shot you with-

an injection of a fine heroin

Heady and lost, but found in some

Kind of ache

An ache you’ve always had but silenced

And his mouth has opened yours

And his words that fall read like a promise

You are about to lose a virginity

You didn’t know you had.


“I own you.”


Hands, his hands everywhere, in your hair,

On your throat.


“Your heart and body belong to me tonight.”


Submit yourself like a fallen bird to something

So hungry—someone as alone and ravenous as

You are—both of you ripped open to your

Secret desires.


He assaults your limitations and spreads you like night,

Jabbing his arrow into your center

And giving you peace in annihilation.


Look into the mirror, your eyes two black

Solitaire spheres, lost in the pool of lust,

Lost in thinking how your minds unravel each other’s,

How his certainty and control only gives you

Permission to let go and be taken

Entirely, trusting the hands of your captor.

Lost in how you are driving him into

What he needs—no control, no limits, only nature.

Lost in how he is driving you into

Your needs—relief, a breaking, a release

–release from all the mirrors you’ve held

Up to yourself, back when you didn’t

Even know you were suffocating in

everything you have judged

Yourself on, everything law you

Have been governed by.


“You. Are. Mine. And I am going to break you.”


And then his sweet murmurs, whispers that

Remind you of how he read you poetry, the

Two of you naked in his white sheets.


And hunger grows like wildfire, you cannot get enough

Of this intoxicating strangeness, drunk on this existential

Affair, this music.

Hunger must be fed, wildfire spreads in that forest

He made you remember, forced you to look at.


Force yourself to keep looking into the mirror,

Imagine those dark eyes are his, imagine looking

Into him,

And it is you.

35 thoughts on “Paramour, My Lover

  1. Stark but not, i think, totally dark–made me relive a few things remember being told ‘I want to kill you and eat you’ and feeling much the same–so addictive, so impossible to ever turn away, all that chocolate poison. Last lines are especially killer, but then, the whole poem is.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. This is a remarkable piece. It read, for me, like two separate entities: The first movement ending before the first line of direct speech. The second, with its call and response, delves into the convoluted maze of human sexuality with unerring accuracy. In all, an amazing reading experience. I hope to have the opportunity to read more of your work.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. “I own you” I once had a love like that and it took my breath away. Your vivid piece took me back there even though it didn’t turn out well. Bravo!


      1. Good to know Amy. He has a special place in my heart even though it didn’t work out and it wasn’t exactly like your piece. He made me feel, I’ll put it that way. Hugs!

        Liked by 1 person

  4. What’s always great in reading you is the mastery you finesse in edges — bravura collisions ending in elllipses … Tight and high-wired, swinging from thought to thought. What is sex driving at, anyway? You ask that question with the second-person voice, getting to the heart of the matter like taking instruction from the sibyl on the tree our own shoulder as we plunge again into the betwitched wood. But whose instruction, really? We’re willing victims, jumping into the fire with a yeeeehah:what is immolated, what is released? The rite of spring is profane and infernal and holy, no doubt, but was it worth it? We wonder, to be so … broken … A dangerous surrender. Who is initiating who? and what is all that nakedness getting to? Riding the cusp of coming until one goes insane. Dangerous stuff, nudge nudge, the paroxysm that breaks two bodies into one, and the way out of that forest is not easy. Once one has been so … seen … what are mirrors ever after? Fortunately the poem doesn’t have to do more than tear all this loose and leave it a-swirl. Always good to read you, Amy, and best.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Brendan, I both love and am confused by what you say. For me, it is all about an awakening–the moment you realize you not broken but entirely alive and it needs to be felt physically. Erotically–because that’s the safest form of physically expressing the desires of the soul. The mirrors, how we see ourselves, and that dominant hungry beast she wants is really her nature as well, a mastering of oneself. No?


      1. Sorry to be so opaque, it’s far less excusable in prose … Blake was right when he declared every thing is holy, and the most profan(ing) love is nature at its purest … but minds in those woods can be torn apart: far easy to disaster than master dark deep wild love. Perhaps it’s easier for angels of a more evolved order than us (Rilke thought so.) The savage garden isn’t safe, really (we can’t control eros, only limit it) but to write of that initiation: Now, that’s a motion the poem can make meat out of. At least, I thought you did. What is the fire deepest in the poem that must be written next? You found the language for it there. Besides, it’s a lot easier to write Ophelia’s love-song for Hamlet than to sing it alongside where she ended up. Hope that helps, somewhat. Some of this must sound pretty juvenile given the high-wire standards at which you write. Sorry if it sounds so Duh.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. It sounds perfect. Thank you. You tend to see things I miss, I know how to feel it and write what I see, but I am hardly as well versed to explain it like you can


  5. Oh, my goodness. There is such depth here, and a hunger, a carnality that scares me. I appreciate your bravery and honesty here. I understand some of this – and I am afraid of some of this, because I know the dangerous side of the loss of self. Stay warm, my dear. Love, Mosk

    Liked by 1 person

  6. A wonderful piece Amy! I love how you marry sexual liberation with submission, and how you effectively use the mirror image to explore this personal exploration of the woman. You make it so the man is there and not there, a fantasy manifested, the surreal made flesh by the will of the woman. Truly a great poem.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Amy Jo, this is AMAZING! Wow! I’ve been thinking about how to do justice to what I’m feeling with a comment. I’m just going to free flow with your trigger words, phrases, and themes that stroked my mind and soul: light, fire, mirrors, naked, cage, submission, curiosity, dominance, submission, forest nymphs/beasts, passion-induced high, spiritual virginity, behind the veil, contrast of the erotic edges, and the erotic mind revealed. This more than resonated deep within me…

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