BY TORI EBERLE
Sand down my skin with your gritty tongue,
licking up the salt, built from all
the tears I never cried.
Next, my swollen eyes, pluck them from my
face with silver pliers.
Then, caress the gaping wound
(once my mouth)
with a rusted spoon.
Sticky violence brings us together, molded
by molten desire.
As your moral conscience gets tangled,
smothered by my fire.