Boiling.
I had a fever dream of being
meat in a self perpetuating
grinder. For a second
I could be
tender,
but I am made of bone,
and skin and little blood.
Brick by brick,
you've built me into
something less.
Crafted me into weightlessness,
so when I say death is my front door
and I sleep on the welcome mat,
sleep is like the police and you
are a parent strung out on smack.
I stomped on you in the clouds
where you broke three ribs.
I kicked your teeth in; heaven
came from your guts up to
the bottom of your tongue.
However, you have flesh, and fat,
and cartilage, and nail, and hair,
and willed me to sleep with less than
a flick of your porcelain wrists.
I am made of bone.
Eventual and useless.
Boiling.