And I want to be kissed by the creature inside me.
Knowing she’s death.
Knowing she’s written on my recipe.
I want my tongue to go over the rigid row of her upper teeth.
To give a sense where none may be.
In a pretend tomb looking for a way out.
Just like a birth.
And you’re awake while everyone’s gone to bed.
Clammed up like a little peach seam head.
