there is a body eroding inside of me
worms eating out my mouth
i have a taste for death
it has killed me at least twice
but i do not think, no matter how many times
my internal dwelling collapses
that death ever leaves, nor do i ever leave it
(how could i, with our bodies entwined
and our voices combined to create one voice;
when i speak, or love with this heart of our hearts
does death love through me? or in me? or of me?
what is love but a thousand chips of bone;
a collection on our mantle, trophies of solitude
and eternal winters kept tightly confined)
a season is drowning inside of me
i keep choking up snow
i know i am a vessel, a harbinger, a black lung
sick with the love of decay
very dark but i love it
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