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 ******