Bottom Out
Slut for such disgusting precision,
attention to detail turns me on.
I notate the date/time as a graph
forms in silence on the blank
slate of your waist. A fissure
splits, gauges worlds between
two juxtaposed Decembers.
⅓ of your body weight is lost.
How many more numbers
can I scrape from your clean
downward trajectory?
I’m timing your breaths, smug,
wondering what more remains
to measure, quantify, calculate.
Digits get caught between
my yellow teeth as I’m gnawing
at your pretty bones, fucking you
over. The calibration resets
in your throat, a hollow
0, 0, 0.