Let me slide a little bit inside your skin, boy, taste
how you taste my lovely tongue as it gyrates.
Feel how I lick your sweat caves. See, it’s all called
learning, as in, I was taught this once
and now I’ll pupil your eyes to look at me
beast-like because there’s blood galore beneath.
You can let it all out and swirl it down the drain
or drink a little, but oh! how gauche the new-wave
vampires living it up off the page—want a coffin?
Eat out my torso and climb inside. I wouldn’t call
these feelings, I would call them exactings.
Your tongue aches to lap at my saltwater.
I’m trying to remain a purveyor of our bodies’
museum. Arms folded, I walk inside of us, History
guiding all my little footsteps. See this panting?
It’s called “War of the Fairies,” and those your teeth
in my shoulder-blade. Tell me about your strokes.
What color were you trying to exact my skin?
