days crawl by
and humidity stills the air.
the black flies are late this season,
though around here, most things are.
below the gnat line, girls like me
seldom get to die easily,
perfumed powders
masking the scent of illness,
flushed cheeks and damp foreheads donned
as our feeble bodies recline on fainting couches
to delicately languish away. we know that
there’s a certain beauty to decomposition,
to fungus gnats invading potted soil,
to fruit flies nesting in sink drains. we know that
rotting is a clock that never stops,
tallying each unflinching, humid second while the
days crawl by.

I want to die out here with you
I want to decompose in your arms
our flesh slowly growing softer, and softer as our skin rots and our organs decay
our bones slowly growing closer, and closer
until our leg bones are not separated by leg flesh and our hip bones are not separated by hip flesh and our hearts seep together over our rib cages and our skulls press together, chin to forehead
dry leaves tickle our feet and the cool wind soothes our hot bones and the earth covers our clasped hands
until they can no longer tell who was me and who was you

you forgot to take it
to the curb
you forgot to empty it
your mind had been full
overflowing with the memories of us
it sat there for awhile
you wanted to keep them but
they began to
decompose
perish
rot to their cores
and the smell lingered
you started to bag it all up
one by one you put pieces of us
in a jet black
plastic bag
with a twist tie
and walked us to the curb

Not long after I laid myself upon the Earth,
I began to grow roots, suckling the green.

Before you knew it, they borrowed farther,
Far from me, crawling faster away.

To be so toxic, yet making myself at home.
I needed some good, to prune the bad.

As I gaze at the storm clouds rolling,
I wait for the rain, but not before the tears.

There is a bitterness, rotten deep within.
To be so disconnected, it is painful.

So I lay, disgusted with my own ruin,
Wishing the woods would cure me.

What a dumb little lie, who do I kid.
I will decompose with pestilence.

How dare I come here, how dare I weep.
But here I'll stay, a graveyard of grief.

I don't want to write poetry.
I want to rip apart my brain
and feed it to my thoughts of decay.
I do not want to think of you,
because it is evidently clear
that you cannot be a constant,
So I shall extract you
(and all the thoughts, words,
and phrases too)
from my mind.
You may not enter this home,
I locked you out long ago.
Your little petty games
did you no favours,
tied tight to immaturity,
it looked too much like
not committed,
so I sent it all away from me.
In this case, not knowing no grey
is an advantage,
I would rather not choose to
sedate my appetite with your
little crumbs of "love"
(good morning, how are you?
every birthday).
It may take years but I won't forget
that I am not in the business
of decomposing yet.

Will you decompose me?
Take me apart piece by piece
Bring me back to my roots
Until I am
                     no
                              more

Your branches, they reach out
Scratchy and rough, but warm
In your embrace, I am vulnerable
But at the same time strong

Now flourish, the flowers
And fruits of our labour
Don't leave, I'll be powerless
I know you will, sooner or later

That's when I truly decompose
Not with you, not even close
I decompose to nothing
Exactly what I am to you

Come child,
Wash those cobwebs from your eyes,
let not that sadness clutter your vision.
I know your mistakes and faults keep you up,
wrap them away, your silk thoughts, and bury them
within you.
We all know misery thrives on sorrow,
and infected hands handle peace.
I see the black veins in your gaunt hands,
and soon we will all know ,
the messenger of mercy, is the heart-
becoming silent, only speaking with a language of tears.
And not even you my dear,
can escape from the sticky entanglement
that murders beauty and passion.