STRIPPED

Worry laces her wirings
sans corps beats her heart for her, not the sinoatrial node
It swallows her whole
The pounding mixes seamlessly with the action that caused the reaction
Wetness slithers and loosens the veins pumping in her eyes
Blood slows
Breath short and stiff
The sans corps revels in joy
They love the smell of her fear
It intoxicates them
Like wine did for the roman thousands of years ago
It's sacrilegious to them
As jesus’s birth is to christianity
It slathers their skin and makes them feel warm
Bathing them anew freshening their leather leatherness 
She is flame
That dims under another’s stare
Flickers unsteadily speaking or being spoken to
Strong but weak
Clings, licking you up into a dark sinch
Unsatable
Wanting and seeking
Any hand or arms will do to hold on to
Sweet as ripe melons and apples on a summer day
But can turn rotten if left unattended
As fruit does
Delicate lace among calloused skin
Metal pinging away at veins
Searing them away
She feels it all
Every last peck, lick, insertion, pounding
And it kills her
Her spirit
Not body
Although she punishes it so
So it might truly hurt her body as well then just her spirit
Weighing it down
Ripping the lips off her face
All whilst sans corps steadily laughs with glee in their tortuous spree of her; who’ll be named жасмин-zhasmin