Quench your thirst — I want to feel your heavy
cold breasts on my back when you mount me; scrape

your claws across my skull as you hold me
down with one hand, exposing the soft nape

of my neck to your teeth. My dull, mammal
blood — I’ve never let anyone do this

before. Love is so had to find. People
say that they’ll work for it, work for this bliss,

but how many really do? The perverse
shall soon inherit. Those who have tasted

strangeness are set free from all the world’s shame.
We few, we lucky few. Love has no curse.

Love is our birthright. Love, lap up my blood;
lick my lips, nothing else will taste the same.