The Wake

This break has launched newly created struggles into my lungs.
Your appetite for curiosity forms scabs on my knees, sore and
Shaken from plummeting to them for support in a sobbing convulsion.
Words suffocate to death in my throat when you force down pearly
Gates with your reason of irrationality, preventing the escape,
Escape of these bleeding shouts.
They bleed for you, an aqua hue that you’ll recognize in your backstroke
Away from me through an ocean of forgetfulness. I feel like dying
Whenever we talk on the phone. More like, you talk, I just listen.
You won’t allow the
Words I need to let go of into the air. Let them fly, and
Maybe I will too. The longer I conform
To this rule of yours the more the bodies of decaying dreams and
Hopes pile up inside of me. Maggots on maggots, squirming into
Eye sockets and out of rotting livers to feed on the flesh, the spirit,
The brain, and the heart.
These bodies will be carried away in old wooden carts by someone
I have yet to meet, if you refuse to regenerate them. Sticks and
Stones break bones Ms. Jones, but lips of silk can break a soul.
A soul once strong with love falls deeply into the pit of despair
When its base has been Chop Chop Chopped.
Lightly trailing your lips across my stomach, you’d call for me
As your bear. I am bare, stripped of a confidence wrapped around
Me by pale, smooth skin. You stand over me pouring pail after pail
Of cold, relentless water onto a fire ignited by the warmth of your
Thighs. The empire of skin on skin, teeth pulling lips, and soft,
Curly Blonde hair shimmering in the sun, that smells essentially
And indescribably of you
Diminishes. Over thrown by the revolt of curiosity. How can you
Ask if I’ll be with you always, then say you want to see if there are
Others to be found?
The doubt in you digs the grave for our relationship
And this writing is the headstone.