A sapping. Endings devour me
like needle-mouthed mosquitoes,
friends turned lovers for no
reason other than proximity:
that blood suck of libido that
drains a gully of regret into
the pocked skin of collarbones.
Infected are all the bug bites
I slap, little craters and scars
the sun spills its guts on,
freckling me with halos.
When I succumb to adoring
you, I know exactly
how to probe for poison
then siphon it out through
a straw, my throat a grotto
blackened. Isn’t everyone
susceptible to becoming a
parasite until they’re loved?
I mean, really loved—like a
moon loves a planet in the
reign of gravity: a constant
orbit. A science to study.
Unable to articulate goodbye,
I let the phrase DONEZO
escape my lips, yelling like
a whack gameshow host
wielding a megaphone.
Gone are my days as some
swollen-hearted woman bowing
to the welt of sentimentality.
I need the blood like you
need the blood: now, right
now, before the mosquito
gets smashed between palms.
Before that itch sucks me in,
and the bite blooms, inflamed
as June’s strawberry moon.
