Your breasts, pressed; a valley where cum gathers
like ghosts. Through your bra, your scrubs, your nipples

hardened as you bent over me, fingers
at work. Your dad warned you of white devils.

Your mom said that I wanted just one thing.
If so we’re taking our time. I’m ghostly

pale when pressed against you; all my scarring
in stark relief, my veins glowing faintly.

What do taboos do but hold back chaos?
I love chaos. I love how you bent down

while I sat in the dentist’s chair, nodding
for more. Fingertips soaked. Crudest of sauce

coating each. Dappled ash pressed to wild brown.
I’m your daemon. The best kind of haunting.