The memory
Within my pulsing words
Is like a drifting soul
That you can't see;
You sense its presence, though

You question what's not there...

You'll be tormented
Never knowing what
I wanted from you

Just stop screaming
And, you'll hear my whisper
Echoing the answer
Deep within your brain

You'll always be the same
In death, in life, in bed, in cars
In arms

So tied up in the ghosts of arms...

The fizzling scars inside my breast
That drizzle acid through my chest
Just like a tired battery

It sighs
To scrape the marrow from your bones

Replaces it with acrid burn
And, biting wind
The jagged sickles from my fingertips
That broke off your unyielding skin
Your cruel, unfeeling skull
The ossein
Dull porcelain
That looks so pure, to me
A smooth, round bowl of milk
For me to dip my flaring fingers in

A cure for me
That isn't death
You think I'd learn to love my flesh
Much more than this
For, when my dripping hands resurface
There it is, again:
The proof of soured life

The blanched, white twigs
That, soon, will forget how
To sheath themselves
Like snow-light boughs
That strip, only within the amber glow of Spring
That perceived sweetness
Skeletal
And, buried wings

Get frozen in

Over again
And, over again...

"And don't call us Maltesers." - Marquis