caught in a third-floor elective classroom.
Bite your gods. Some bite back, some
sharpen your canines to serrated edges. Some
you will devour, or crack-open-bleeding your teeth on, or
you will be tamed by, for lashing out.
We sit together around the cackling campfire, savour
the stringy, sacred sustenance of saccharine sin.
I bite, and bite, and crunch
down to the sweet marrow-bone and my lips come back
violet. corruptive, sickly sweet, decaying, unholy violet.
You look at me and you laugh, blood
dripping teardrop-thin down from your watercolour-streaked
constellation-dappled, undying forearm.
The gods are mortal. The gods are gone. Their sacrifice forever remembered
only by their flesh. All that's left in this cold, rotting world is
the mortal messiahs they made, smiling briefly,
brilliantly. I taste deification like blood, like tears,
in the blessing we both got in laughter and
in caramel-salted sacrifice. We both bite down again.
We rip apart the tender meat in sorrow. In penance. In
reverence and worship and gentle memory. If the marks of our teeth
remains fossilized on calcium, if immortal flesh can be bitten and
touched and bleed and reshaped-
does he, by Newton's third,