fishing lure

i was told in a dream,
"be careful of that which calls you."
in a museum of fishing lures,
i am an eel. a ribbon of wanting
in a pond of fists. the undesirable catch.
o all the razor blade apple at midnight. 
i put hooks through my lips so that
the gods will know that i am already taken
in so many directions. i have been pulled
into pieces. i have lost jaws & eyes.
lived two lives at once & then three
& then five. a group of eels is called
a "knot." i made that up but in doing so
it was true at least for a moment.
i find lures hanging from a tree
outside the house. i do everything i can
to not make eye contact. once i bought
a boatload of deaths i didn't need.
the plastic smelled like sex toys & ghosts. 
my favorite lures are the soft ones.
the ones that squish between your fingers
like fruit snacks or rubber chickens. 
i had a friend who let me play with
his father's lures until my fingers smelled
like shrimp. glitter bugs. feathered fish. 
i stole one. took it home. slept with it
beneath my pillow. woke up in a frying pan
where my eyes turned into balloons.
i do not trust any beautiful something
but every once in a while i give in.
let the taste yank me to the moon. 
i never come back. i never come back.