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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.