I bite down on sweet fruit, 

is it morning breakfast/lunch/dinner/who knows—is it night?

I want to bite down on my own lip, 

so hard, that it 

births more mouths

that I can use to speak—

I want blood to drip in the breeze,

infect the many that can taste what it tastes like, to be me—

me, me me me me me me-

me

me

me me me, me      me

me me me me ; me

me

me

what a strange life we’ve bitten down on now,

strange wild meat 

cries 

in the belly 

of a host

that doesn’t 

feel or know or 

care 

how much the world it lives in,

has changed/

I go to sleep.

Sleep.

Imagine that this is all a dream.