She drowns me in her blood
now and then,
boiling, burning and choking sticky crimson
stripping me to sizzling pieces of flesh,
as if each drop a piranha.

Every time this happens I'm nauseated
at myself.
My life flashes before my eyes,
her words of frustration in my absence provide the narration
while my mind writes the score
composed using chewing chattering shattering bones
with flashbacks of every time no matter how big or small
I've wronged her,
like once when I grabbed her hair as she was kissing me.  
The only thing stopping me from hanging myself
with a barbed-wire noose
is the grit of my beating heart's rhythm
tapping out in morse code
that I will be reborn
into a minescule of a better person
for a certain amount of time
until this cycle happens all over again.

Truly, there is honor, to die
in this manner.  
But the agony leaves me almost permanently moonstruck.
As my skin skalds and bones dissolve,
there's no telling if, or when I will be reborn
or languish in this this precipice of death.