When you latch onto me, I can feel your heart writhing, and mine too, reaching. Tightens like any muscle. But inside the body there is no light. Standing in front of the mirror is a barren errand. Most mornings I barely resemble myself; it's like waking up with a stranger. I realize that you too profoundly misrepresent me as someone delicate and sick and needing to be nourished: looks underfed, looks like a trapdoor, looks like someone who owns nothing at all. So what. I prefer to surround myself with little. I let you overestimate my fragility. I like to look like prey. Unlike you, always trying to need more than you need. Never learning that accumulation only makes you lonelier. I am going to break you of that habit, just wait. I am going to rearrange your insides until they are exactly to my liking. You're not even pretending to resist. Just wait until I smile at you with my teeth. Oh yes, what a lyrical, lilting laugh I have. Lean in. I can see how nervous you get. But you never just go home. I know exactly what it is that you want me to give you, but I don't want to give it. This is not an attempt to be cryptic: you aren't going to get what you want. You don't even know what you want. Really. You should just go home. Even if we are alike, my dark is darker than your dark. Swallows it whole. I'll create more dearth inside of you than I've ever sated. Don't follow me. Don't look at me head on. The desire for nourishment can be nourishment itself. See. When you look at me, I start changing your insides. A look can do that. My eyes take on a new wetness. Don't follow me. Don't go where I am going. There is no bottom to this depth. And inside the body there is no light. You just keep falling.