Love something tender,
chewy, broken in. Translates to ache without border,
expectation blooming to fit the space it’s assigned.
Her name is overcooked. Say it anyway: bright,
memorised, some kind of holy. Nightfall over
& over consuming the skin. Tongue as its own
meal. The girl only as beautiful as she is gone.
Her first love is all these masks. You can’t compete.
Torso threaded in mourning. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m
nearly finished, I swear it. She is the answer to empty-
handed. Always the smell of burning. The want of
sex in the stomach. It’s evening all afternoon, &
these are the sacrifices you make to finally feel full.
Don’t say summer. That’s too obvious, too clean
for gay girls. Instead, move into vivisection of
history & all its seasonings. Introduce her to your
parents, your gods, your sharpened knives. Fry.
Roar. Eyes in orbit of her mouth. Horizon as edge
of every circle. Didn’t I tell you this would end in tears
eventually? Now here she is in your oesophagus
again. You could kill or kiss her for that. Or
invite her to dinner & pray you remembered to
set out an extra plate. What is it they say about
love? That it’s only possession reimagined. That
it lives outside the body. That it’s florid & empty
& cheating & thankful for so much, so much
it doesn’t know how to name. All her life the girl
has eaten. Now it’s your turn. Doorbell ring.
Quiet bruise. Price of deadly. Anything is yours
if you swallow it.