I don’t want your forgiveness, bloodchild,
when you have your milkteeth buried 
in the blue-laced hollows of my wrist.

The hazed empty nightmare you give in  
for a word from me, for your lonely desire
for repentance, as though you could be saved.

You’re pretending to be gentle, unstitching me,
clawing my loose veins from their red innerlife
with your viperous mouth, to get inside me again,

acting like you’re holy, girl, a wine-soaked angel,
no blood to bare with only a couple of bad deeds
weighted on those wide white shoulders.

Yet you are only minuscule, small enough to cage
yourself in the earthen tunnels of my heart,
leech curled domesticated in my wasteland arms.

After leaving of our love to rot wild in the creek,
you feast on its remnants, swirl around its death
like the sick fuck you are, bloated on memory.

I will gut you in seconds with my fingernails,
so thank me for this small grace: I’d kill you
quickly with a breath of what I really think,

and hope I didn’t just hurt you like you said,
I hope I made you hurt yourself in my honor;
tasting me on your lips, summer-raw, hellish, sweet.