craving

consensual

savagery

sometimes this is misunderstood to be love.

I’m pissing my mother’s divine shards of glass

covered in kitchen light and cold water 

my silk second skin clinging 

even to my concavity

smelling like pages

because of the ink you left in me

I pace on dead trees

where you almost threaten to love me 

I eat

the metal

to bind

my breath

to build

the world

inside of me

where no one lives

aloneness

is iron

slick

on black lace

I

am

the feast

of her ghost

but

you are not hungry

and

I am

not dead

Trees do not lay down.

Your strings do not search for me.

I am not a ghost.

I cannot tell if you are dead. I’ll eat you anyway.