ill. 

i. i wish i could stick to you like

artery plaque:

a slow, meaningless suffering

shuffled across your bedroom floor. 

were you to

choke on a gasp or

spin around too fast

i could be your 

last fresh breath or ankle carpet tangle,

respectively. 

ii. oh! what a sweet skull to be crowned with,

what a sweet skill to cloak:

a masterful unraveling 

of thread to tie you together

but we end up tied up, 

started with my red band of yarn

you wrapped around my ring finger;

pressed our praying palms into

a tapestry depicting

the fall of man. 

iii. and now!

my wrist veins are in your arm, we share

a liver,

and we are trapped in a glass dome 

with nothing to look at

as we sink into the dark sea. 

the pressure is pushing. 

i look for cracks in the glass

so close to my eyes

it has all blurred. 

iv. there are bubbles in the blood we share. 

don’t go to sleep if you’re stroking out. 

you don’t believe in doctors so we are 

heart surgeons, profound absurd prodigies

sanitizing my bedroom floor. 

white lights and penicillin are ambiance,

the scalpels sing “will you won’t you.” 

put a flower under your tongue and

wipe your brow, 

use your hands to break my ribs

and open me up. 

v. i have a distinct memory of

you as the sun

and never knowing

how my retinas burned,

forgetting to look

for a cure

when you developed a cough. 

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