You like your fuck puppets cute and pig-tailed.

Boys call you, “Papi.” Girls, “Mommy.” I sweat

fugly. I slur. I’m grotesque: — yet, so few

ghosts stay to write your name in cum across

their drowned bellies like I do. There’s no cure.

I grind it in you slow and hot: — You’re ill

for days after. You’re ill enough to bleed.

Sick the way fire needs carbon. The sick need

the rope has for knots. “Make it tighter still,

leave a mark, something to look at when you’re

gone.” — just under the skin, aching for loss.

Bend me, break me, if you must. I give you

my bones, my vulgar flesh that you crave. Let

me be your drug, where all others have failed.