You,
A sore on my lip that I bite and I bite.

A catalyst of pleasure and pain.
In my mouth, in me, in my thoughts,
As my teeth clamp down.

I want you, but are you bad for me?
Will you break the skin,
And watch the blood trickle,
Licking your lips while you
Lick mine?

You’re right. You’re pure.
I need your thoughts. I need to
Watch as your mouth makes art.
Make art for me.

I bite down on the sore until
I’m dizzy—hoping that tonight I
Won’t dream of you.

xx.

—By Meghan D., 20, Los Angeles