That lone thing calls again n’ I’m cringing, trying to bite down so it won’t get in the way of nice things, but it’s pressing up on my lips, seeping through my teeth, and I know a few days down I’ll wake up rather choky with it slipping over my tongue and coursing through my throat again like a nice mean howl of my own; manic drenched in that lovely blue primal rhapsody. Call it the old cold paws, but I’m not scared, I’m smart, bet you a million– sharp as a fang. I just feel when loves about to prickle, the roughing things up, before storming up the gut. When the leash too short, collar too tight, and I can’t catch my breath. I’ll resist as long as my teeth can bare the gritting and grin cause I know ties rot fast once you hack the chain and theres nothing after that to keep you kissing. But one way or other nice things give up the ghost, it’s natural, even if by way of biting.