I hate this attic I have become,
full of dusty things and second thoughts
getting good use of a ***** old trunk
it is my bed, flattened boards into a cot.

Inside are the rotten brain-cells
where I construct every bottled-up plan
pursed, then shattered on their shelf
blood on my cheeks, I blush for the man.

O, he pushes into my womb,
to be used as the deepest keeping place
and I will wither into the closet soon
the parasite inside me, I need a final case.

Wilt farther, I know I shall
as men, bloodsuckers, open my bowels.