Sometimes-- I'm illness
-Breeding pores,
And 'yes' I can feel them.

When I cut through skin-
Searching for inner beauty
--as I've lost mine-

These fingers,
Squelch over weaving's and wraps
Inside-
It's warm red here,
Almost mulled wine evenings--

There's suppression on
Your blink-less face
In tearing lips,
Yet--

You smile.

As you feel my hands rummaging,
Through-broken-ribs in
'Hopes' of stroking lungs-
Only--breathless-slow-motion
Memories occur.

And instead I stab
That precious heart with
Unwarranted lonely,
I'm breeding-on-the-mess
I've made--

Staring-at-the-pieces,
I'd been drinking--
A carcass of iridescent beauty.