Danielle Pringle

At night,
listening as you steadily pump
carbon dioxide into the room,
I can feel them.
Their cylindrical bodies
wriggling and writhing beneath my breast.
I grope after them, trying to wrench them free,
but their fangs are latched on
like a brand new Band-aid,
and they’re slippery like your kisses
after too much whiskey and coke.
Your arm flops over me, then stirs possessively,
pressing my shoulders into your chest
and another nine-eyed fiend bores into my skin.
Your lips bombard my neck, journey upwards.
The lampreys suck on my aorta,
you on my ear.
They deflate the valves
and my breaths
burn in my lungs.
You shift back into sleep,
nose burrowed in my hair,
like you don’t know
you’re draining me.