it was drinking myself from the inside out:
every drop of internal stuff sucked dry,
every pearl of bile or blood or stomach acid
drained. i tossed my bones around inside
my skin, thought they might look better
arranged some other way.
on my back in a room blanketed by blue
curtains, fingers pressed against the wall
trying to steady a body rolling
like wind-beaten dunes. he licks and twists me,
trying to wring the last bit of wetness
from cartilage, metacarpals, the sheen
over the eyeballs – where he stands,
no puddle forms.