Waiting for Oceans for Mourn After the Rain

A pincushion for thrusting needles.
I am raw
to all the muscles between bones.
Clench your fingers about my neck
until I have
a mouth full of tar.
When you finish; a smile drawn across my chest
and it is ecstasy to know that you are as vile as I am.

Here is a poem I wrote during a particularly strong typhoon.

Waiting for Oceans