Fetus. Kicking... screaming. Dying a little each day.
Burning, oh the flames of the belly.
Ripe ruby red coursing hell inflaming inside of me.
Each breath is a death, each blink a little less.

I'm old, but i've been told,
That I'll get older yet, and my shrugs, and my ugly mug,
will transform to wrinkles yet.
But bet me if you can, that I'll hit the grave first.
Lonely and cold in my sepulcher friend.

Bones are so brittle,
Muscles so light,
Her rose petals are pink,
if you know what I meant.

I remember it all,
Until tomorrow morning.
When I forget it again,
Until next evening.