It’s in the bloom of a bruise. It’s in the way she wears cold steak on an eye that’s swollen shut. In that hairline split between love and ache. Kiss with spit. It’s in a fist full of hair. It’s in a gasping for air. It’s in the imprint of teeth into flesh, into scalp, into the hum-, into the drums. Kiss with spit. What we hide behind locked doors. What we sweep under floorboards. All the filth that gets us by. It’s the violence that keeps us alive. Young, numb, and dumb. I want the scar. I want split lips. I want the gag, I want the choke, I want the spit. Kiss with spit. I feel the pain. I kiss with spit.