I find some sort of satisfaction
getting under your skin, taking a trip
along the train tracks of your blood vessels
just to see how much you can take before you snap.

Maybe I'll look for some gold while I'm there,
since everything gold does not glitter,
I'm sure your shadowed carcass
will do me some justice.

I'll kick the soils of your tissues,
possibly dig holes in your pores
to find a nerve you
never cared to show me.

I'll paint mosaics and tapestries
on the pasty walls of your bones,
then smash my creations into pieces
to find the secrets stored in your marrow.

I will scratch at the layers
to remember where I'd already made my mark
and run through your bloodstream
to find my way around.

Then, I will bathe in the fluid,
changing its colour from red to
crimson, in hopes you'll
waste your blood on some actual effort.

I'll make music out of your ribs,
punching them with a flux of force,
trying to find the right octaves in creating a scale,
or maybe an étude.

I'll play them over and over
until they get tired of the noise;
get tired of being used for pleasure
in favour of my own ears.

Then maybe, just maybe,
I'll finally reach your heart

and I'll jump on it like a trampoline,
roll down its ***** as if it were a hill,
switch its ventricles and slide down its arteries
aiming for some sort of reaction,

just so I know a heart so bitter might just actually work.

- g.d.