Never.the.less

The screeching of us

Like a wounded machine

Craving for rust, yet

Living to be dismantled,

Slits the night open

And keeps us at bay.

We bleed in turns,

Ferociously biting at flesh

Of others, never abiding

Table manners and cutlery.

I am all inviting teeth,

Your tongue runs soft.

When the sound and thirst

Collide, we grow wicked wings.