To suck. To feed. To gnaw on a deranged

teat. It’s been years since I’ve felt that panic.

Oh dear. I guess it can’t be helped. How strange

just how consent comes in comics. Graphic

grubby, voracious and somehow safe. No

matter the kink. No matter the hunger.

Pity poor passions, the one door I know

that the gods speak through. I still remember

all their voices. What else will dementia

grind down until I’m ravenous? roughshod?

stripped of bliss? A hungry ghost that nothing

will fill? Desires numskulled by trauma?

Numb. Skull. Panic. The urge to be gnawed

to the bone. The urge to do the gnawing.