I want to tear me
into a thousand
pieces
and wrap each piece
with
a red red ribbon,
a gift of immortal
affection
to many men, a piece
of my body,
a rhapsody of flavor:
'orange with
cinnamon',
'peaches and cream',
'blood orange dream'.
One gets an eye
but receives no
sight, no
I would be lost in
delight with him
and he would call me
'dear'
like the little
animal that I am;
a tequila shot good
enough
to be left to rot
once the flavor is
gone.
One would have to
have my chest,
however I might keep
my breasts,
I'm quite fond of
them myself.
This guy, he's a thing
of hope,
he might disappear
as a clear streak of
good will or luck
and oh, will I miss
the fuck,
the peachy taste of
it,
the beloved
consistency.
Now He, the bloody
orange Santa,
he will ask for it –
a vein.
I know it since I
know him well
enough to say he's a
bloodthirsty
pagan, a demon
king...
Yet he will bring
a brand new body with
him
to replace the last
one I had
but decided to start
giving
like a really really
bad girl.
Oh, and... you know,
since
Christmas is coming.
Angie Siljanoska
