The Sickness

The sickness is under my skin again, crawling in confusion.
Daylight screams.

It starts with the alarm clock. Night terrors, tick-talking me to sleep.

I slit your arms around me,
But why did you leave?

Your mountains are stained by
wild midnight. You’re in love with her air.

Her skin is made of cyanide, her bones, frozen and bare.

Silence stands against my bed, my tongue on splintered wood,

I bet you’d eat my carcass, if only you could. You could!!

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