Within each, the triad.

It’s chemistry; it’s divine biology.

Enter the Id. We’ll call her the Tigris.

She bears the waters.

She’s the motherfuckin’ muse.

Often, we coax her into submission.

Recite the ritual,

keep the beast at bay,

hold heavy on the door.

But every altar requites a sacrifice. Every slumber a conjuring. (And besides, you miss her when she’s apart from you.)

Because for every creature that came before her, for every other swollen mouth you meet: they won’t bloody your lip like she does.

She’s dripping milk and honey.

Come back to bed.