I am
a mustachioed loser
a pulsating weakness
a miracle shrouded in flesh
iridescent trigonometry
a receptive lover
an echo of wailing smeared across the night
the slab and the chisel
the cure and the tumor
the ocean and the vessel
the truth and the rumor
endless in finite feedback loops
eating chicken nuggets at midnight
filled to the brim with passion and fear
incredibly lonely
credibly lusty
sensually rusty
incredible
just, incredible
supposedly inedible
breaking the pattern to say
“Does anyone wanna eat me?
For the love of ____,
I’d like a mouth on me.”

That’s it.
That’s all I’ve got.
I have forgotten the thrill
of other fingers brushing
for mine,
to grab
and
hold.