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Playing Daddy. Each time I scrape a scab

my blood globs out like blackberry jelly.

Time to clot. Time to plague. Time to go stab

at my congealed crust while gangrene honeys.

Rot as nectar. November brings septic

shock; kiss me and you’ll taste canker, manhood,

fruitless patriarchy. Love curdles thick

as phlegm and grieves. Bratty be good; by “good,”

I mean, “Come embrace this toxic attempt

at a father figure that only fucks.”

Cum and December’s corrosion will make

sex-rot sexy again. Daddies might tempt

others, but we know that they’re still eunuchs

while Love consumes us like a plague’s outbreak.