I devour poison, love is another chunk of curdled milk in the fridge behind the wilted greens. We never eat them. There are pounds and miles of beans, I'm sure, rotting, stuck in the drain into our kitchen.
What we have, our entire foundation, is filth from the days we wish we'd rather not recall or speak, but are cursed, jinxed, sharing seas of sorrow, sharing a bed in the open.
Were I not so fixated on macabre thoughts and photographs, were I not so jaded by what I've had, I'd respect the grace incoming in unfamiliar forms.
I devour poison, and you poison of your own. We share this sickness, starstruck with each others' bile and refuse. Eating disease.