your body’s food to me. I’m weak. It was

too warm, and I too tired to resist.

Inside the narrow pathways of your wrists,

I read the dirty prints of hurried blood,

the rot where you don’t look, the salty buffs.

Bad darling, bodies are not ever ours.

You’ve taken mine (or parts) to half-thought moors;

black hair made loose down a girl’s white back

will lie down in a thousand lands. The smack

of flesh is good, but brighter in the brain.

A little goes a longer way. No stains.

Too late I wandered you, and I got lost,

as once I slept in England, under frost

and in a field. I woke up stiff and strange.

So I found you, and shamelessly remained.

Consumption has its joys, but flesh will boil

and spread itself, a mist, a slick on oil,

which when we cannot grip, we see. And we

will live in hearts across the streets, the seas.

half twixt compulsion and will;

drip-fill my vessel,

o viscous oil.

liquefy my insides!

make me human once more.