You like your fuck puppets cute and pig-tailed.
Boys call you, “Papi.” Girls, “Mommy.” I sweat
fugly. I slur. I’m grotesque: — yet, so few
ghosts stay to write your name in cum across
their drowned bellies like I do. There’s no cure.
I grind it in you slow and hot: — You’re ill
for days after. You’re ill enough to bleed.
Sick the way fire needs carbon. The sick need
the rope has for knots. “Make it tighter still,
leave a mark, something to look at when you’re
gone.” — just under the skin, aching for loss.
Bend me, break me, if you must. I give you
my bones, my vulgar flesh that you crave. Let
me be your drug, where all others have failed.