It’s not like anyone understands
what it is that draws me to you—
like anxious mosquitos to a caged
blue light, where they die united,
leaving a burnt stench in the air
as the light lives on. Or whales
who throw themselves ashore,
leaving their lives so they might
finally taste the half-baked sun.

Or maybe I am more ordinary
than I credit myself for. Maybe
I am like ants swarming a Snickers bar,
vultures following the dying doe,
Hollywood zombies tracking
the tender brain. But I wonder:
is this hunger, or craving?

Is there a chance that your years
of self-abuse could change you chemically?
That my lips picked up *******
in your saliva, or perhaps ******
laced the perspiration of a nervous palm
over mine? Is this attraction
or addiction? Does it matter?

We make the choices that decide our fate,
or so they say. But who’s to say
we’re really choosing?