We Could Be Friends

Bite then, a piece off my flesh, And quench on the gushing pints of red. Sink deep your incisors, and dig for what little remains; Yank! with great hunger and break the skin like a dog to a rag. Trust my wounds— Here, payback and karma do not visit. Peel a sheet from the cut on the back of my neck, to my back, to the heels of my bare feet, But do not disturb the knives in my spine. Pay no breath to the broken bones that pierce, And feel not guilt for ones that break on your bite. Grind them into powder and spice your ego! Your hunger is not yours, grub on my growl and fill your gut. Slang your blades and tattoo more wounds atop the scars you find. There are no patterns nor mosaics nor cascades to obey. But if you wish, unlike those before you, be an artist with it— Draw to your heart’s desires. Pay no apologies. Pick and pull at the scabs that may protest, Offer no sympathies and believe no tears, Because what is a friend, if not what kills you for better ones.