I want a bite out this human. If only I could take a bite and kill you on the subway, speeding. Hey, who do you think you’re touching? Hey, you, get your hands off me! I’m about to be ripped apart. Any second, I might get torn. I had plans to scream and throw a fit. But I take my hand and push deep into my lower stomach. Breathe. Deep. Don’t fucking touch me. I said stop leaning on me. Driving me nuts, what the fuck? Trying to pop out this leather, taut, a fox or wolf. Flowing blood like a lunar halo, you think the bloodstains that spread through blue sheets are instinctual? Because of the full moon? Shut your mouth. Truth speaking woman, if you know the truth, keep it. This is the gospel of filthy humans. Periodic bleeding. Stomachaches. Although I’m not stopping, although I’m complicated as hell, people keep trying to get inside me. I’m an insider, me. Not an outsider. You mumble even in your sleep. Sudden hemorrhaging. Blood flowing. Repeatedly closing. Opening. The action of a world with a big door. That wheel that repeatedly stops as it turns. The route that doesn’t change. I need to get out. Escape. I need an extra duty maxi pad. What to do with this passed-out-fucker? This fucker with his hand in my coat, talking in his sleep like reading a scribbled letter. I want to beat my lover, but what to do with the motherfucker? If only I could jump and bite the back of his neck and run, if only I could sprint over the railroad tracks of a single night, my wild hair flapping, if only I could go to the red coast, moonlit, to the sandy beach that flows, and there, beside the cool well, I would lay you down, if only.