There are tethers from me to you.

There are silken chains upon my feet

my neck

my leaden bag of bones
from which you snatch
with piercing claws
(claws I ache to warmly mold upon my jaw)
a midday snack.

Take what you will,
and what you wont.

And your tongue,
your tongue, though sweet, stained
gouged my throat
and smoldered my core,
leaving wounds for me to lick and
burns,
burned.
My skin is branded from your coarse lips’ touch
yet your shell remains unscathed

immaculate, indifferent.
May I have the honors?

May I tarnish your complexion

Your reputation?

Still – how can I harm you,

my fundamental flame?
You were my first,
and what number was I?