RADIATOR: Mewl, say I. Or Mew. Or drool. I do not know the difference between my sounds and there is a beast rattling my pipes but let me ignore him in case that is enough to make the teeth dissipate. ME: Who says that fangs are like air and can just disappear because you will them to with the trophy tongue you hang from your navel in lieu of the penile apparatus you wish you had been endowed with? RADIATOR: Because you are just a woman, you do not know that I am simply a man trapped in metal and the longer I breathe, the more the steam is drawn out of my lungs. ME: I should be a mermaid then. You can cook my fish parts in the indirect heat, then use my female parts for the sex act I am certain you cannot complete. RADIATOR: But I am incapable of ingesting anything that is laden with mercury poisoning and you are very nearly some sort of thermometer. I am already filled with rust and other things that should reek of the elemental nature but I refuse to enhance that nature to the extent that a little red girl will crawl free of a tomb stone and gnaw me with her genital wolf teeth. ME: But I am that little girl and the wolf teeth are not tucked between my legs but pushed into the flesh of my knees so that when I crawl, I am able to bite the ground and even stone learns to fear me. But that is just the end of several hungry bits merging with my digestive system. Help me crack my back and I will rid your spine of the rusted parts that keep hinting at your column. Because I am the only girl you will ever bring into the forest and leave with. Although you will be tucked around my neck and spewing oil while I walk. RADIATOR: I knew a woman who looked like you. ME: But she was not me. RADIATOR: She could have been you. But the floors kept crumbling and when I looked again, her head was in the center of a wall and her lungs were swept up beneath the carpet and then her fingers counted out the minutes until my death. But she died before me, despite all that incessant tapping and it was a sad sound that still haunts my pipe holes. ME: Pipe holes or penile holes? Perforated margins or pencil punches? RADIATOR: Pieces of flesh that should have gone rusted over but instead stayed soft and wet while I beat my shoulders against the floorboards and waited for the tiles to swallow me up. Watch me bleat like the sheep I should have been born as and then let me go into the radiator slaughterhouse where I am reduced to my most valuable parts and forced to watch as all the extra sinew is tossed away. That is not the way any body piece should ever be treated but I am fine with this and it is the only way I can get my daily dose of meat into my diet. If only my pipes would not shudder so violently when I shake my legs. ME: I am menstruating into your face and yes, rust comes off my uterine walls but so does all that clotted tissue and the more the man whispers my name, the more I imagine a lifetime locked in a lupine embrace and it is terrible to think of a beast instead of a hairless figure but sometimes, I dream of fucking the ghosts and all those bodies are hungry. All those entities call my name. RADIATOR: They call Radiator. ME: They say me. They say us. But me.