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
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,