In this power dynamic, you and I
                    knowingly choose imbalance. We
                                        take our places in the painting,
 
and portray. The Byronic zero, beaten
                    half to death, knows there is only one
                                        price to pay to heal: to kneel. The one
 
with the actual power–clean cloth
                    and warm water–is clueless to
                                        the game. This demonstration makes
 
even the gauze blush. Oh, bleeder.
                    I'm the prey animal that outran you then
                                        snuck back into your den to watch you
 
writhe. Your stomach is empty of me.
                    You wish I were inside. Out there
                                        in the world of knives, they wage
 
war upon the body. They see a body
                    and think: war. Us? We pay a call
                                        to the God of Pain to track dirt
 
into his temple. We don't even need
                    a moon, do we? The way I see you
                                        is tallow dripping off the edges
 
of a votive cup. Between breaths,
                    our senses attune to a dark room
                                                            with each other in it.