Pslam of the Promethean

I think

you made me.

You formed me

with your muscled hands

in that dark and secret place, touched

my face, my waist, in an act of intimacy we call

love. I think I love you. I think I was made to worship

you, to fall on my knees and lift my head with my mouth

open. To consume you, to be consumed. To look! taste, and see.

I want you to make me whole. I want to be filled. You could

almost make me good enough that they could love me.

You could almost make me good enough

that I could love me. You could almost

make me good enough.

You could almost

make me

good.

Andrew Oom