i am a thing dug of poetry,
labeled *****,
and mangled into death masks
for the tortured,
burnt, and drowned.

if i slept, i would sleep
between your fingers,
then twithe down to the padded
things that hold your words,
bend them in a kiln
fired hot by the breath of
my hellos.
if i were to eat,

i would consume the entirety
of your vision, swallow
the rods and cones
to curl in your tear-ducts
and taunt by holding
back the curtain
just long enough for us to smile.

if i drew, i would outline
myself on your forehead,
as a stamp, swim under your skin
and carve each bloodcell's
name into their limp, cracking
foreheads. if i breathed,
i would

breathe in your humanity,
and char it, exhaling
only the cinders to
gift on the outstretch of my palms.

i am the death that
encapsulates some,
only weighing
in the mouths of others,
tacking their days on my body
for a high. i am
more tired than you,

but i will be around for longer.