My first dominatrix was a butterfly I siphoned away from a masquerade ball. Guided into my shoe, I felt the symmetry of her wings on my instep as I elbowed us through the crowd. All my velvet was ink-dark all the way, the passenger pose in a taxi. She said she’d tell me when to wait for her, and how fast. In no time she had me crawling through the grit of fire opals while she perched on the radiator. She stretched an indifferent leg. Most of her was blue-black like a bruised kimono. A smear of violet crested her veins. I put an asteroid in my mouth, panting up at her while she yawned. I filled my hollow bones with moss and kept my fevers to myself. When she finally released me, I was now a shimmering thing. The air stung my body, broken and broken free.
-- Erin Lyndal Martin is a writer based in Blacksburg, VA. Her poetry has appeared in Gigantic Sequins, Cosmonauts Avenue, the Collagist, and elsewhere. She's on Twitter at @erinlyndal.