i feel the skin sloughing off my bones;
knobby, they are.
my skin feels ephemeral, more now
than it has ever been.
i am losing weight like
i am losing you.
my hands wither before me:
all my years they served
the purpose of creating art as best as i could
but now they look like dead roses.
my ribs puncture my skin like throns.
my husk is decaying,
dying,
dredging up memories of the youth i never had.
could it possibly be that i don't want to die?