Sometimes, I dream meat, red and succulent, begging me to taste it.
Last week, when no one was watching, I bought bacon and bit it good.
As I chewed, I thought of arteries clogging, of pigs squealing, of blood pooling,
a mental montage of all the bad things that come with flesh.
It didn’t change the thrill that ran through me.
Last week, when no one was watching, I bought bacon and bit it good.
As I chewed, I thought of arteries clogging, of pigs squealing, of blood pooling,
a mental montage of all the bad things that come with flesh.
It didn’t change the thrill that ran through me.
No smug abstinence can ever match the
illicit
rush
of
sin.
You are like that, the bad game I can’t stop playing.
Some nights I hate you, but always, I run back screaming your name.
In my dreams, you sneer, saying, “Haven’t you figured it out after all these years?
You’ll never be anything but mine.” Fine. I admit it.
Baby, you’re my one true addiction.
Swine’s flesh has nothing on you,
you
smug
mother
fucker.
Burlesque Press 