You can try to count the rings.
They wrap and sing.
Rubber and like the insulation in doorjambs and thick and flexible.
They emit serious grease, keeping me sealed from love,
pushing goo through my mind.
At times I take a short, sharp knife and pierce through some rings.
I can feel tiny, slight motions of cool air.
The love creeps weakly through my mind,
and I feel almost okay, wonder how many knifings I can take.