Tell Your Men
the baker,
the candlestick maker.
tell your men the circus’ come to town
and she’s not wearing any underwear.
she’s sliced herself atop a dingy platter,
splattered her self-loathing across
filthy upturned faces.
it’s been so long since they’ve had a feast.
she tastes of blood and mistakes,
and it’s delicious.
they’re insatiable
and she’s unending.
not immortal,
infinite.
drag her ashes along your lips
and give us a flirty smile for the camera.
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