On being warned by your poet-friend that I will rip
you off and will make of your bones fodder to my wars
No, darling. That’s not true.
Rip is such a light word to tell what these claws can do to you.
If only you‘re tough enough to be carcass and prey,
If only you’re kind enough to let me be.
I will pluck your eyes.
I will open your rib cage and
take out your heart and make pulp
fiction of it. I will publish
your white hair and your nails and
your uterine walls. I will hang your white breasts
by the highway and will tell every passerby that
they’re mine, they’re mine! And will share them with
no one. No one. Not even with you.
