This is my most embarrassing poem yet. Tonight I hold a wine-filled chalice with both hands, drink, and sit bleeding into the bathtub. My body celebrates the moon and curses everything else—it’s an evil and gluttonous black fox, except not sexy.

Yes, sexy.

I am sexy enough to eat. I am eating myself right now with this poem, since no one else is gross or daring enough to take the first bite. Not like me, grisly grog monster,

Eating and eating and eating.

Blood and beet-stained pout. Crumbs of eclair tumble down my chest and tummy into black bathwater. I am filling the hole, fast, and kicking delicious dirt over the top with my hind feet.

So what if there is no other monstrosity with which to share this banquet? I don’t care. Yes, quite pleased without it, thank you. So what if my unspent wishes angrily spin.

Let them gnash and bite and spill out of me and down the drain.