Something happens: I bleed off schedule,
can't help but think of your warm inside me and wonder,
shedding linings or bodies or futures or feelings
and oh well, I'll sharpen my shark teeth on the carca** of us
and watch them get stronger each time
you run from their razor's edge,
but who ever said that salvation's a breeze?
so you chose the pleasant / I choose the good
like I chose my fate and refuse the safety of the bit
to favor instead control in small doses
like when I stab ink below skin,
squeeze sebum from pores,
or reject favors, and
I don't eat, I don't eat, I don't eat
all this to show how I could s** this struggle
and metabolize it, could shed pounds,
cut fat, induce premature wastelands of labor and bloodshed
to lose the liquid of you, and you, man,
I can be hungry and still I won't eat with my razor teeth,
they just keep the poachers at bay