So many compulsions —

You can’t stop, can you?

Neither can I,  but for me it’s words.

Half as many imperfections

a shatterbox on legs driven by

the rhythm

unavailable

except to display your

soul and behave as if you have not

Fresh and wet

Slipping out of the womb

As a beautiful veal calf

Not yet saved from the slaughterhouse

But too pretty to eat

Just yet

I come in peace

I bear no knife or fork

Only a desire to consume the supernatural

Through the pores of my skin.

Pat Troise

(thank you to Aro0 for the inspiration)