It's the ilk of me to see you with a broken back but this is harsh. My intents breakdown and howl, to save you. If I hear you cry, I'm going to swallow you whole. Your voice makes its way through my ears, the softly uttered curse I soused my veins in. The immoral cue, you stink of, before forging a road through the back alley contrived on my shoulders.
The pith of your lips on my neck massifs - a dying thing over a dead thing. The gradual movement of the stars, this isn't how it's supposed to be, what do I do with the remains? How do I die in the hallway if not over the white sheets and charcoal mist? I want my hands to be silvered, to be blackened.
My hands embowed in the burns of my hurt. I can't hold my bones when you ask me to hug. I don't want to love it the way it is, if not with your eyes open, your chest under my face and dusk dying. This death daubes me a disguise; you as the straggled thin moonlit and I-a strangled martyr. Life ditches your breathe and I submit mine to the moon, barehanded. My fragility is in your hands and sanity on your fingers and you flicker your sins off every moment and call it salvation.
I hear my stubs straining under my ashes, mourning under my ashes, for me, for my rage, for the death that never waited. There are so many stubborn wishes drinking your name to have you back, to have me back. There's no way I'm not asserted dead, if you are the one who is dying,