When it gets into me, I grind my teeth and stoop over until my nose bleeds. When the blood trickles through my fingers, I grin and bite and chew and those who get too close are reduced to mere ashes. When the fluid is in my belly one version recedes while the other comes racing to the surface. This thing inside of me, it calls out your name. It wants you more than you could ever know. It puts you on a pedestal, makes you an icon. Maybe a jewel. Maybe a lamb. Maybe the lexicon of these secrets that keep bubbling away unseen. And how they bubble and pop each second of every day along with every drop of saliva that drips from my mouth into the palms of these dirty hands so it swirls with my blood and sweat creating portals that resemble the part of your body I draw on the doors of toilet cubicles. I write poems, too, seedy little things where I call you a whore and other such niceties for the whole town to see. Scratching my neck, I take another hit and my bones turn to glue while your image becomes crystallised in my mind despite the chaos that takes me in its arms and crushes me into marbles the colour of your eyes. The pinch in my guts. The squeeze of my throat. The electricity that takes me places no one else would believe. In the dead of night, the town is a black dot and I am God and the devil and the howl of everyone who ever was but is no more. In the time it takes for the clouds to open and for the light of dead stars to tickle and tease my chin, you have transformed from a pearl into a mirror into a shark into a wave that eclipses all of our yesterdays. This fluid. These thoughts. The call I surrender to, and the urges and obsessions that have me in their grip. May they keep going until my jaw hits the floor and shatters into a billion shards of darkened glass with each one containing your gaze.