I was happy when you called me
a ‘leech.’ Because, Zarathustra.
Because leeches are honest
predators. We are drawn to your warm
blood, your scent, not your cosmetic
reimagination of yourself. We don’t judge you
for your superficial decisions,
like the times you’ve displaced me, ripped me
off your neck, scalded
your own skin with a torch, to burn me off.
I clung on,
with my suction-cup-mouth.
When the time comes and you lose
your teeth too, you’ll know the pain
of never mincing, always swallowing whole,
of holding on despite your attempts to shake me off,
and of growing skin so thick, I overcame
my human urge, to want to crush you.
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