leather-tongued, red as the bottom
of night, wound into me like
fingers or a bruise.
Here is an illustration of breath.
Here is an elevator for eyes. Thumbs,
racing towards Sunday. Call me
obsessive, reactive as apples
meeting rot. Call it a gun, call it here.
Oh flickering boy, yellow with
music, inject toner into my
thighs. I call you the psalm of
my demise. Call you faded smile, dissolving
into jagged pixels. I call you, call him.
Call him. Call. I can be anything you need
me to be. Shaving my skin off, just ask.
Some might call this insecurity, I call it
shifting in and out of your prevaricating
teeth, a boneless thing, a quartered voice.
People like the shred of me they see:
A smile that could solve
the energy crisis. A bad girl,
so call me trash. You
feeling spontaneous tonight? Oh baby,
I’m always improvising. Have you ever had so much
of a sentence in your mouth that it was always-
already shattering? Give me a name you’ll
remember in your sleep. Give me a gloss
you’ll peel off upon waking.