he reeks of death
that boy
formaldehyde in his veins
arsenic on his lips
choking as he laughs, a breathless thing,
a death rattle

he says the shreds of tires on the side of road look like dead dogs
spilling out their guts among the broken beer bottles and trash
for all the world to see
that the flies hovering spell out a confession if you look close enough
that it’s all yours, he says, for you
how romantic
your boy

he said he’d burn you up
and he did
til you breathed blood and smoke and the sadness dripped from him
“it’s okay” you say, like it’s not his fault
Because it isn’t his fault that you did it anyway
“It’s okay” you say, because they always said you weren’t good
At letting sleeping dogs lie
“it’s okay” you say but you spit up your lungs on his shirt
And press your head against his chest

And give you him your heart

“I'm not using it”, you say, and pray
That it will keep him warm
And let the death settle in the empty hole