Leah Breskal

Love is like a rattlesnake,

            he whispers in a seductive, lilting twang.

i laugh at its shaking tail then,
my frail ego lapping up his
warmth––made with love––resuscitating
            me enough to pull the mask
            (Hopeless Romantic)
back over my shuddering face.

            love is like a rattlesnake.

what does that mean? i whisper
at him in the dark.
            love is like a rattlesnake, he hisses back,
warm hands slithering down my sides,
snaking up my shirt,
the other down my thigh, i hiss:
i’m his. no venom, no cure, no need
for it when his tongue can soothe and coax my bleeding
punctures closed, coil up inside my
soul, jaw unhinged, teeth
sharp, dragging down my
thoughts as they graze my
throat. i hiss
harder, deeper

in its tightening hold, sigh heavy
as he coils
                          me
                           tighter
                           and
                                                    tighter,
                          its cutting
                           edges––
silver
                          slivers,
                           gilded
scales––
posed for the hissing kill,
fangs sitting, jaw unhinged, at my
smooth porcelain
jugular, yet still
warning: stay
away;
love is like a rattlesnake;
before it bites it tries to warn you,

slithering limbs snaking, coiling, tightening around me though i like the danger that’s why i fall quickly ‘cause i like the feeling of the wind in my hair and the sting in my eyes before crashing into sunburnt concrete and i crave the sharp inescapable engulfing feeling of the pierce of a venomous fang that breaks skin and dyes it the deepest red and turns insides out and turns and turns them out and out and out ‘til i barely hear its split-second hissing warning of attack and it sneaks up on me and i barely hear the rattling plea that
             barges through me a
                                                    silent scream and
                          it happens so fast and
                                       it’s coming and
                                       he’s coming and i




                                                    deaf and dripping venom

                                                                                             see him now,
                                                                                                                      soaked
                                                                                                                     in my
                                                                                                               deepest
                                                                                                                      red
                                                                                                               heat, his
                                                                                                  sharpened
                                                                                                               grin
                                                                                                  well-
                                                                                    fed,

                          and that is how
he has now
left me.

*inspired by the song “Rattlesnake” by Jack Van Cleaf


Leah Breskal is a sophomore at Brandeis University from Los Angeles, CA studying Creative Writing, English, Secondary Teacher Education, and Music. She’s been writing poetry and short fiction for as long as she can remember and is overjoyed to be involved in Laurel Moon as a layout editor, writer, and editor.