Any woman with fangs
knows her flicker resurrects
what should stay
rotting
in the Marianas Trench.
Swipe, swipe.
Swish. Next.
Plenty of fish—
and none worth bleeding for.
I know the dark,
slick and suffocating.
Glow doesn’t mean prey.
Grin sharp anyway.
They want the bite.
The snap. The taste.
Their instinct carves out
a trophy case of testicles.
The bulbous tips
more mediocre than mate
recoil from the glow—
performance anxiety
laid bare.
Pacifically speaking,
women have earned their salt.
Bodies forged for depth and pressure.
No female species escapes
being shaped by hunger—
there’s power in expanse.
Swim deeper—
spine lit, jaw set.
Outlast them.
Salt-rimmed eyes
too alert to blink.