Pulp-Plastered

I’ve changed my mind
I want the blood bath
the tar-stained fingernails
the gut-black stairwell

I’ve grown too good at defending
It’s too quiet and forgetting
I want to pull out eyelashes
lick the spiny hairs

I’ve already been smattered
pulp-plastered, rib-caged
I learned to breathe in smoke
find oxygen hung on particles

I want to sink my teeth in
crack the porcelain
kiss the blood from the edge
of his full dark mouth

First published in Camel Saloon.