Your voice is ricocheting off my skin as if it is water and I am a ceramic surface — cold, hard but easily damaged. Hit me twice and hairline cracks will skim my exterior. Hit me thrice and I'll crumble before your eyes.
This is hunger I've never known — this clumsy greediness spilling over my hands and onto your lap. I want, no need, no want, no need all of you: heat flirting with my every sense, my longing stretched over your bones like skin.
I wrote this awhile back and I'll write it again; spray paint it over ceilings and drag it through the mud: you cannot make homes out of people.