Skinned

I will scratch at my  
      humanness
until it shows color;
humor me—huge
and hued, hungry
for an ung
               racious
grasp, I rasp rapacious.
Is it possible to rape
one’s self? I
                   lunge
after your lungs, long
ing to be in, greeted by
your groans, grow
ling and howling,
slipping at a lipped
syllable
            and sliding
still.
       O!     the thrill,
like tilling fallow land,
like yearning to be
home—again, and
opening the door
and coming
                   in.

_