Now that I have met you, Sir,
and my nerves are raw-
skinned fish,
I am begging you to fuck off, please.
I am my own sphere,
my own little planet covered in its delicate
membrane.
You are all sharp edges and hooks.
How many blasts would it take to scour this residue
of hunger from me? I would rather be reduced
to bones than to continue wanting you like this.
Oh yes,
the heart is only a muscle, the brain
only tissue, synapses. Desire?
It is viscous and wet.
No amount of pressure will stem the flow
sliding through my driest cracks, nor
stop my blood from thumping hot and quick
when you sizzle so carelessly through my orbit.
Like a hurricane, you hijack my weather patterns:
making me damp when all is parched,
making me wind-furious when all is still.
This is not a catastrophe, this little drama
that plays itself in continuous reruns, this
embarrassing farce that no one ever sees.
Enough of your mystery and magic—
I am through.
