The old self br like a dybbuk br clutching at my heel. br She wants to come back. br She is digging br her long red nails br into the tender meat of my thighs. . . br She tweaks my clit, br hoping that my sexaholic self br will surface br and take me back, back, back br br to the land of fuck, br where, crazed with lust br I come over and over again, br going nowhere. br br The old self br does not like br her displacement. br She resents the new tenant br sprucing up br her disorderly house. br br She resents br the calm woman br nourishing her roses, br her daughter, her dogs, br her poems, her passionate br friendships. br She wants chaos br and angst and Liebstod. br She claims br she can't write br without them. br br But the new tenant br is wise to her tricks. br Disorder is not poetry, br she says. Pain br is not love. br Love flowers; love gives br without taking; br love is serene br and calm. br br I talk to the dybbuk: br br My darling dybbuk, br I will love you br into submission. br Tweak me, I will only br caress you. br Claw me, I will only br kiss you back. br br For what I have learned br lets me love br even my demon. br br Demon-I love you br for you are br mine, br I say. br br And demons die br of love.