I struggle to hold on to you.
With love comes decay.

It's dark beneath my skin
I'm shivering
          Shivering from the
                    cold
My skin is falling from my bones
          Torn
                    and old
Stone fingers turn to dust
Wooden teeth leave splinters
          Like jagged
                    strangers
          tracing my skin
                    in the night
Transparent eyes
          Glazed
                    with sugar
          Blue
                    and white
Black blood pouring
          From my mouth
                    like literature
It's here to stay
          All of it
                    is here to stay
Coat your hands in tar
          Or
                    feel tears
          Heavy
                    on your hands
          Heavy
                    on your heart
Keep your eyes closed
          If
                    you want
          to see me
                    breathing
I'm here
          Ready with
                    my lips
          and my chest
                    seething

Confined in close quarters
begging for quarantine
love tastes like carrion

Breathing mold spores
appeals more than
the kiss of a dying heart

For to taint joy
with the stink of decay
haunts honesty with living lies

A heavy heart
cannot power the light
that fuels a soul

Down here, it is dark and damp,
Like a Concentration camp.
No more desire to discover,
as darkness has declared every colour.

My duration is close to descend,
No desistance from this decline.
The decision to disembark,
Means no more bloodline.

Don't delay my departure...

I can't see...
It's getting darker.

the insects crawl over me
i have to keep them away

don't jump on me already
don't let the me decay

a sweet
delicate taste,
veiling true intentions.
Delicious retribution, then
silence.

She sits on the table her head tilted back and her mouth open wide ready to catch all our unfiltered trash.
Planted firmly on the worn wood along side the water rings from long forgotten and unattended cups.
Her round body adjacent his long frigid fingers, tediously tapping the decay off his cancer.
She gathers up her strength and holds her pose like a marble statue at display in the louvre.
Like a switch she shuts her brain off from reality and allows him to dump his filthy bitterness into her.
Her lips close along with her eyes and chokes down his worthlessness, equivocating at the burning as it stamps itself to the inner wall of her stomach.
She solemnly reminds herself that is she is beautiful and that she is strong.
That without her dust and char would violently float amidst.
Her chalked and caked lips reopen awaiting the next flick of his fingertips.
She sits on the coffee table wishing it was coffee that we were drinking and that she was a coaster.
But we dont drink coffee; we smoke cigarettes and she is just an ashtray catching all of our secrets and regrets.