i want to pull open your chest, dig my fingers to bone
red viscera clinging to cold, wet skin
i am all 117 pounds of longing to know the darkness inside, all the places you've been
i want you to hit me until a small part of you feels good
healed even

you playfully pinned my arms in california,
me, hundreds of miles from home. you, hundreds of microseconds away from snapping.
looked down at me with, well,
all perplexion and cinched dark brow
I couldn't tell if you were trying to figure out if i got a new pair of eyes since i'd last seen you
or if you were searching for the possibility of the ability to - absolutely undo me.
cracked open
shake out all the pins and twigs and thimbles

Terence White said
"Think of lust. Real blood lust is like that."
But White was talking about falconry,
and I'm talking about a sick personal desire to be obliterated

knock all the blocks down and cut the chord,
and like the graeae we'll share one heart,
one pain,
a shared experience in which we come out understanding
as if that's something that
we can even
manage