I sleep on the blood of smaller others
with stick hips and no lips sucking still
the blue lines under my skin.

No one told me I tasted so sweet
but in this heat they lap me like a sticky
lollipop, as if I
were their reason for existing,
their last and favorite fleshy endeavor,
their only sin,
their only wine;

When I kill them I kill pieces of myself
and this is always shocking: the warm blood
stolen from my fingers, from my feet, streaking
the cream walls, staining the curtains

and my bed lies testament
to their un-mourned for death,
a slaughter only I commit,
only I lament,
sleeping in a graveyard of insectual remains they
offered for my sake alone.