Scrambled by need, I say, I want to give you my bones, all my language rendered useless at your feet. I’m useless, here, too—I thrust my uselessness at you. I say and say it: I want to be scraped across the bed like a salt-slick meal. I want to be torn from my frame, steamed clean. I want to be nothing, said the man in the story before he nearly got his wish, wrecked and reddened in the alley—and it’s like catching my face in a car window, dusk-addled negative mouthing along to my neediest self. I want to be nothing, as you push your knuckles into my mouth. I want to be nothing, a wordless
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