Little death around your lips makes your smile
somehow sad. Little cum on your chin, eye
liner smudged, your love-bitten throat: I’m vile
to my toys, the ones who say yes, the shy
ones who feel a bit queer. Vile with a touch
of slash-and-burn joy, brawling bliss. I’ll salt
the sour earth that you’re buried in. You’ll clutch
at my hips, gag-spit at my cock’s assault
on your throat. I make a foul god, bad dad,
beastly boyfriend, but a good friend to those
who laugh at this. You say sex. I say soul.
We write about all that we’ve never had.
Little death, I’m shy; tad queer with sorrows,
tad sad only words let me lose control.