I live underground—
with fiendish hands
that reach through
the dirt and mass,
grasping at a sound.

To their mile-wide gaze
of white wall eyes,
my lungs collapse,
crumble and fold—
taken in and out of sight.

Through earthly glass,
I am a broken con artist.
My cries, a faux pas,
my skin off-brand,
while somewhere
a heart beats, embodied.

Amidst
this push-pull throng,
a long goodbye speaks
to dead space,
bearing dead weight
down on the world—

Commodify my breath.
Call me sanctioned off.
Ship me to the doorstep
of a funeral home,
where I can be buried again
in my fever-hot coffin.
One would call it a soul,
forever dropping in—
from the other side.