By Joshua Arnold

She grabs me by the neck, and pops my head off.
I bubble upward toward the convoluted sky,
spewing forth into the warm night air,
golden blood sprung from a prison of glass.

I spin in circles through the flickering candlelight,
hissing and foaming with anticipation.
She picks me up and looks carefully through me,
stealing a glance at the man across the table.

I am being drunk now, drained from a crystal cup,
passing through her soft crimson lips,
down her dark, cavernous throat,
into her blood, her brain, her kidneys.
She enjoys the way I make her feel when I am inside her,
loves the way I make her heart tingle
as I pulsate gently through it.

Three hours later, she laughs, forgets about me,
pisses me out into a grimy porcelain bowl,
cringes at the acrid smell of champagne and urine,
and sends me spiraling down into the sewer.