I choose to imagine my sharks without teeth,
mush-mouthed and grim,
gums soft from the still-fresh extraction
and a heart exhausted from the anguish.
I imagine it soft now,
hoping for a little something,
and I could be a pervert who carries a whip
and a two-pronged dildo.
I should demand a little something,
tell it you're a good boy.
All my sharks turn bestial,
even the decrepit, now parasitic, sad ones,
the ones of which I've grown bored,
the ones I'd eat if I didn't think they needed mothers more.
I suppose it's how I turn them home,
these versions I play-act into dreary, slow no-ones,
how I set myself free of them.
You can go now, poor thing.
We've finished every last bit.
I am writing one poem every day in 2016, and I am using the hashtag #365poems to document my progress.