Your arms,
Are like the days I used to cut myself for you,
In front of my computer.
Pricked flayed.
From the times it split too much depth.

In the Red Sea vein.

Like the times I'd drink,
Till I ****** in the corner of the floor,
In my room.
With the door handle loosed,
So someone can find me in the morning.

My whole life is a corner
With you the coroner
In a morgue with no form to it
With the bodies on the slabs cut up.
Impatient and waiting to be whole,
Not facing the wall  of your skull.

This rooms too full.

My bodies piled on the others.
Autopsy waiting room.
You're in that cottage at the edge of the abyss.
The event horizon to hell.
What Dreams Won't Come.