Hot staple of a letter,
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 
permeability,

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.