there is a body eroding inside of me, rotting
out my mouth
but i do not think, no matter how many times
my internal dwelling collapses
that death ever leaves, nor do i ever
(how could i, with our bodies entwined
and our voices combined to create one voice;
when i speak, or love with this heart of our hearts
does death love through me? or in me? or of me?
what is love but a thousand chips of bone;
a collection on our mantle, trophies of solitude
and eternal winters kept tightly confined)
a season is churning inside of me
i am choking up snow
i know i am a vessel, a harbinger, a black lung
sick with the love of decay.