Tallow in winter. That long-toothed ruin

wrung from drippings. The decay of Eros

dribbling down my wrist. Say it in Latin.

[Demon] [Possession] “Daemonicus.”

Possession. Mine. Flesh rendered so I’m fit

for your gluttony. Yet something fetid

hangs in the frozen air. Frostbit. The bit

that was a nose, two lips, one pale eyelid.

Frostbite leaves the dark pit in my skull

exposed. It takes a certain hungry gall

to snog with just any possessed bastard.

They say if you can’t be a good example

then be a grisly warning. Gouged; I’m all

brittle bone. Now kiss me like a blizzard.