Rape in the Toy Aisle

You said the blood was sweet like a weapon. I want to sharpen against you my sense of irony, Dear Loved One, my olives dripping their brine on your face from my marigold mouth. When I told you I wanted to touch your Germany, I was being sarcastic. I wanted to touch the deep reptile of you, sock your handcuffs back out, be inebriated by your attention until I could no longer swallow. What else would we stuff. The blood was sweet like a weapon rotting. Sharp with the taste of the freshwater-filled creatures that grow in salt. The undersea vents that test us like disease. Take the dripping hold and shut it. Be a boat, okay. Be a boat and wet yourself on the underside. Provide anchor for tiny mulligans. Be a blood caboose. My face is wet with tearmarks that you paint over with a watercolor brush made of sable dripwet hairbelongings. The elf is dying in me. The inside of me is the blood that terrifies. I am afraid. I am afraid and I don't want to show it. Tell me your safe word so I can break it. I don't have any desires that don't direct me. Direct me.