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i’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting.

some nights, when i can’t sleep, i imagine my father as a little boy. i curl up in the canyon between his front teeth and i rest as easily as he.

you are cain and he is abel and this is how it always ends.

there is a striking resemblance between the act of love and the ministrations of a torturer.

you’re a heap of flesh and guts and blood in a wax museum. the only thing real. sickeningly real. crimson and warm where the others are pale and cold. revoltingly red, nauseatingly alive. you’re a child in a graveyard.

the corruption begins with the mouth, the tongue, the wanting. the first poem in the world is: i want to eat.

you with your chameleon’s soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. in the mornings, continuing where we left off. resurrection after resurrection.

IF YOU DIDN’T COME HOME INJURED, WOULD YOU SAY IT WAS A GOOD SHOW?

i want to be bruised by god. i want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out. i want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed. i want to be entered and picked clean.

with this bullet lodged in my chest, covered with your name, i will turn myself into a gun, because it’s all i have, because i’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own.

i am all yours. i am a man. i’m on all fours, willingly down.

you hate me ‘til i’m begging for you.

your love is a knife i swallow willingly, a torture i beg for in dreams, a wound i refuse to treat, a strike of lightning i run toward, a song that makes me want to learn violin, a heaven with a membership fee.

BARBED WIRE. BROKEN GLASS. THE WEIGHT OF A COLLAR AROUND YOUR THROAT. THESE THINGS THAT MAKE YOU AN ANGEL.

i’ll trade you blood for dirty cash.

you wouldn’t believe the kind of person i could become if you wanted it.

my body is an american; a divine accident, a ford wrecked, spraying blood across the midwest.

the bad news is i got the crap kicked out of me. the good news is i kind of liked it.

you’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling.

show me where it hurts and i’ll lick it better.