It depends on if you’re its type or not.
If you’re not, it’ll tease you like you’re an unripened
plantain dangling on a branch, wishing for its calloused
palm’s pluck and buffer. It’ll leave you bathed
in your own night sweats dreaming of teeth.
Bruises will appear where you swear no one has ever touched you.
You’ll wish you could be flayed, peeled
layer by layer back to a girl, the way she gulped
air with such ravenous swooning.
For others, it’ll turn you addict,
pinned permanently under its thrusting gut,
thrashing under its traffic of fingers
and tongues and limbs and cocks.
The mirror will begin to lie to you, unable to reflect
the wreckage its made of your home or your
needled nest of bones—you’ll spit on your thumbs
and wipe trails of shame from under your eyes.
You’ll fall in love, staring yourself to death.
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