Miracle
Given the option to choose how I die, call me crazy
but I'd go with the most excruciating, drawn out, torturous way imaginable.
We're born with an expiration date
and I plan on being edible until I turn back to dust.
Pain is our life line to survival,
reminding us that we're still alive,
sending a message to this body,
telling me to keep on fighting to remain in a world where
our existence is arbitrary, an alchemist's lottery,
a gamble in which the tables are tipped so strongly against life,
it's like trying to pull gold out of thin air.
We are born into the world in filth,
the product of our mother's suffering,
and we leave it gaseous, putrid, and decomposing.
There is nothing before, and there is nothing after.
We, lover, we're two bodies in seven billion
the crap shot of a single sperm amongst a trillion
courting a single egg, on a planet beneath a sky
punctured by four hundred thousand million stars
in a universe that hasn't walked off the edge of the world yet,
and every day you pass me by I forget to call you miracle.
So tonight, tonight I want you to spank me.
Unfurl my cray paper shoulder blades
beneath your fingernails, suck the pulse from my neck,
and trace your name in the air with my sparkler nerve endings.
Bloodhound,
when I snarl over my shoulder with my fox slit eyes
sink your teeth in my ass and drag me across the mattress.
Scorch a map of your mouth into my flesh
that will linger longer than any sweet kiss.
Burn me beneath your acid tongue.
Crush my skeleton between your palms
Skin me alive.
This is how we out wit mortality.
Reminding each other
up until our very last breath
that we're still right here.
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