There
are days
when I can't
think
of anything
but your
electric fur
and how
it warms
my hands
-the skin,
your skin,
so sweet,
so neatly
wrapped
around the
caged marrow,
-the bones,
your bones,
like arrows
outshooting
past your finger-
tips...
i still
remember back
when,
back when you
believed
the words,
believed that
rotten pity,
that rancid,
3am sewage
of remorseless
pity
i
demanded.
No bones
about it,
i wanted
you dead
just so
you could
open your
eyes,
and look
at me
looking
at you.
