A tendency to get ahead of myself

You must look me in the eyes and tell me 

not to get too confident now, or I will.

I will confidently suck the marrow from your bones without permission. I’ll twirl your name through my head and let it echo through my consciousness, at the tip of my tongue, at the part of my lips. 

I feel nice to touch because my flesh loves you, even when my mind is caught in doubt. My blood is cold; it rushes towards your touch and pricks at my skin, pleading to enter an external host. 

Why do I bite back? If I’m not hungry 

Why did I slip my hand into yours, extend my leg and let my shes tap on yours, as if I had never been so starving?

But what half of this is my style, my particular pattern, the shade of purple in which I spin the stories I pluck from half-conscious capsules I call a day. The story I feed myself to fall asleep at night. It serves me well to ask what is for certain, something declared or in any way real 

What is it I do that drives you mad? 

If you can’t name at least five, you must let go of me now and let the ground break me before I bury myself beneath it,

lying with the small of my back perched, waiting,

for your arms to come and take me.