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

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

Wait.
Listen...

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...

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

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

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

Two weeks in-
the shell pealed back...

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

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

Take a light moment
each day...