You neck me
with calligraphy cuts
romantically red, silent,
and scythed in
a line unbreakable:
I'll take you away from here.
But I scab
into Supple’s slut—
fresh flesh to
finger and fuck :
blame and blemish. Thus
I pick to bleed. My histamine inflames
so singeing your loved letters rise
and remind Rigor Mortis
to marry us.
I gush
to be your staleheart,
skipping—with you—
every
