Eyes up here but hands down there. Granted you're a cheater but the pleasant don't care. I am in love with dying, you were right all along, but you mistook grace for sorrow and I just strung you along.
You turned around, slid off your shirt. Up your spine, under your ribs, like the monster, thick black stitches from your shoulder to your hips. Spread along below your breast, skin so soft, raw, and red. And it makes me wonder: which half is new, what's original? How could you wish for it to go this far? You turned around, took off your shirt. Up your spine, branched in fits, like the monster deep inside, on your shoulder, from your lips, sitting on heaving chest, putting scars in my head.