You wanted the truth so now here it is:
I want you to **** me up.

I want you to eat me alive
and tear me up and
rip out all my pages
and then struggle to glue them back together knowing
that you probably won't try because -oh!..-  there's another page.

Open me.

End my being with your marginalia.
Write on my skin with ink if you have to,
but stain me. Stain me
with your negligent splashes of volatile
explosions of how your name tastes on your tongue.
Show me what it is to cry until you cry out blood
off of your throat. Let me know  
why your vivid hair always curls like that
without your permission. Tell me that I don't need
your permission to do the same to you
because everyone says my hair isn't combed
and you say you can't see the difference when it is so
bite me.

Bite me.


Bite me.



Bite me.





Tear apart whole chunks of my flesh until
you have had your fill. Smile that smile
that smells its smell of blossoming blood
like a poppie that decided to implode outwards.
Do it so that Faust is not even a second too late
to offer us his bargain because we were eons
ahead of him. Do it so that I understand why
you called me a hurricane. Am I your disaster?

Take me to your hell. Your eyes
excite me and I want to know why.
We should burn out violently.
Not be put out. Not gently.

Yes.
In the silence I don't grab you.
Next time I might.