I scrub and scrub
but still the blood pours down...

That tornado is not mine.
My defects are far more elegant...

Wait.
Listen...

We drank a toast on our wedding night,
yours pierced with cyandide...

My insides do not sew the fabric of my flesh.
So de-robe me...

I imagine now a lonely death,
where I may muster sickened breaths...

The leaves are stiff
with winter’s breath...

With the hard bristle brush
I take to my flesh...

For weeks or months-
(its all the same...

Here we are again.
Steeped in the night’s cool and lucid...

Two weeks in-
the shell pealed back...

If my breath extends for far too long
I ask you to strangle my mortal song...