fingernails filthy with the sap of my core,
you human hell—
how can you stand to see your own hand’s shape
where another’s chest once was?
this struggle against immanent expiration
is so sharp and dense—
like jellied milk against my nostrils, sour like an unripe plum
wrinkling my mouth.
rot as i rot, then—
and be reborn as an insect
whom greater creatures give less thought to than
the lashes shed from their eyes as they are dreaming.
henceforth, make my name absent from your tongue.
i have already forgotten yours.
become a ritual design wizard with the web of wyrdcraft.
get a copy of my poetry zine here.
schedule a 1:1 creative insight session with me.