Wrap your pale skin
around my dark eyes;
I don't want to see anymore.

Crush my ribs with
your peppermint breath;
I don't need to breathe.

You love him like you should
for he is precious but
I am the one living
on your wet
fingertips.

That's just the way it is.

I sing in the night
to the centipedes and
slugs, to the bats and
the branches it is
a tired dirge,
heavy and long.

This death of ours,
this sacred end,
we hold it in our
sweaty palms
bruises
our tired backs
and our growling stomachs.

We hold it close, this
death of ours.
This final moment,
the only one of
our choosing.

The bugs and the bats,
they own the night.
All I do is listen to the worms
crawling in the ground
and try to imagine the taste
of your skin with three days
of me on you.