The Taste

From the brutal gaze of blood shot eyes
To the seeping wound of child hood
He had the scars of a thousand
Vicious beatings.
Norman knew horror.

He wore the hard mask of one
Who had seen no beauty, no compassion, and no love.
He knew only want,
Fear and now what he wanted
Was to taste the fear of another.

He wore shadows,
Watched, waiting. Silence
Was his best weapon. Heart
Beat faster, face flushed as
First the leg and then the body
Of want stepped onto the bathmat.

A steady hand with twisted fingers
Reached out for a blind wet goddess.

                 --Aimee Nance

All text and images copyright ©2004-2007, Aimee Nance. All rights reserved.