When A Thief Kisses You, Count Your Teeth

Take my coat and hang it on the door. Rip my shirt,

button by popped button. Tie it around your waist.

Pick up little black things and put them in your pocket.

Undo my belt, wrench it until the loops split. Curl it.

Slide down skin-clung trousers. Fumble with my feet, my socks.

Cut off my boxers.

 

                                    Now, take in my scent and eyes.

Shave my hair, brows, pubes. Stuff them in a pillowcase.

Peel the dead skin from my heels. Tap my head

three times and unlock my skull. Open the cavity.

Prise out my brain and let it sit on the windowsill.

Shed my case and dump it by your bed. Wipe the blood

from my musculature and smear it on your clothes.

 

Dismember my limbs. Put my toes and fingers

in your dog’s bowl. Crack open my ribs, suck the breath

from my lungs. Use my tendons as thread, my bones

as knitting needles. Gouge my eyes and add them

to the necklace you wear. Take it all. Everything. Now.


Buy Now.

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