Phone screen lights up in glum darkness, him/
offering a valentine’s date of takeout and car/
sex, I'm not surprised. My/
eyes get dull, to him/
I'm worth no more than sticky fingers and/hot
sauce my/
pussy lips are the shell I/
drip sriracha from within lettuce labia no/
mayo in this taco. Not his anyway. I/
order food and fuck the delivery driver instead/
make him keep the uniform on/
and send a picture of/
the logo to my valentine to/
ruin his night. Oh/
my god, is this like a/
normal post-sex occurrence I/
have been feeling this way for/
so long, the driver is so/
sweet his name is Norm and/
he’s majoring in psychology (ironic) but/
none of that matters I just/
want to feel him in my/
throat, so I take my first/
BITE.
His sauces splurge, he/
tastes like blood and/
years of dirty wretched longing, I’m/
a dirty girl with dirty/
thoughts dribbling from my core like/
bathroom waddle cum. I/
enjoy the way his blood changes the/
paper bag in which he brought my/
food.
He’s calling now and I/
think to myself wow/
I can truthfully ignore him/
now that I have more pressing matters to/
attend to, for/
example rolling myself in/
human skin. Can you see/
where this is going?
I’M ALL/
BURRITO NOW BABY and they/
can’t touch me