I can feel the small bones in your hands shift under your skin.
Muscles wrapped tight around the grip I could treat as a noose.
You treat the flesh like a dress you wear on special occasions.
A shroud as pale as the snow outside, punctuated in teeth marks and fingernail abrasions.
You clench your jaw so tight, it turns to dust at night.
I can hear it still, promises caught between the gum line and the stained yellow-white.
Why do I like the rain so much?
Do I feel a need to drown in the open air?
It washes out your face and accents the fading blush.
A scream trapped in my lungs, a thought, a prayer.
I don’t want to feel the blood rise past the shoreline.
Not the calcified cocoon washup on the rocks, black obsidian sharpened your teeth just fine.
Broken promises fill in the marrow leaking broken bones.
A weak fading heart, part of a bigger body barely any feelings shown.
I could cough up any number of my consequences, I reaped my dead and you are what I have sown.
A wheat field of bleeding browns and yellows.
A few figures in the smoke. Gorging themselves on a pile of crow. Heaven, not even hell would know.
The place where my mind feels the most at home.
In desperation for respite, not on the cessation itself more on the realization we all just add to this place, feed the loam.
We can swim in the space between here and far from it.
In the dark smoke-swirled water we can truly die, farther down than just to submit.
The veil breaths lives in between you and me.
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