The city knows
I'm no angel.

Please, darling,
I say to the skyscrapers,
If you don't like who I am, you'll like who I could be

I carved a map of Manhattan into my shoulder blades.
Unhinge my jaw into a smile
(oh my what big teeth you have)

The truth is I'm terrible at this.

All these
Working Class Angels, their
rabbity pulse beneath their skins
(I wonder if they taste like it too)

Cruel hungry city,
I feel your streets closing in,
your lamplights lurch forwards
waiting for a ******.