It’s a pit or a grave.
Whichever, I tend to stay
when the sorcery of love dances
on my corpse day by day.
But something died
and love isn’t necromancy.
Eleven ounces of flesh
rotting, barely breathing.
Many tried to revive her.
I welcome them to the grave
of a lost cause, damaged goods,
a bleak, paradoxical save.
Faint beats of my flesh
responding to a loving touch,
but a kind of suicide captures her
because she’s never enough.
“Would you fucking try?” I ask,
“Would you bleed so I can breathe again?”
She’ll bleed herself dry, drown my eyes,
to assert her choice for death.
She wants to die with the lost love,
though it’s not so lost on cosmic paths.
Stars confirm love’s sweet blisses,
its harshness, its beauty, its wraths.
I plead for more beats; she rots,
resenting me six feet under
because I drank poisoned beliefs
of shallow loves, faux thunder,
an alluring ether seeking prey,
necrophiliacs raping my weak-beating flesh.
Perhaps I’m the abuser, the poison shame,
for demanding her strength in weakness.
Am I the sickness? Am I the rot?
Yes, I’m deepening the grave,
barely trying to leave, not taking her with me
though she whispers, “I don’t want to stay.”
But we stay. We rot. We bleed.
We concede. We cycle. We mourn.
At a loss for a remedy, though considering necromancy,
I’m unsure, dear heart, you’ll ever be reborn.
How have I done this to you?
How have I done this to myself?
Love was once our native currency.
Now I’m convinced she poisons our wealth.
Reoccurring, this poison, this dread,
this seemingly infinite sorrow.
It won’t kill itself or let us die.
It bleeds us–I bleed us–every ‘morrow.
How, how did I get here?
This damning, infinite fear.
Why won’t you leave me,
you mirror so clear?
The rot won’t leave my reflection.