I could be wrong
to assume a nymph
lies sub rosa; her *******
Folding over the sharpness
of ribs, flesh waiting to
be kissed and ravished.

My stomach a
green enveloped almanac,
to the pursuits and ends
of truth. A truth that
comes from an unreliable
narrator seeking anguish.

But to punish himself
is to carve hollows
in my skull and chest
And feed my decrepit organs
with jealous ghouls
and conspiring goblins.