Like Syrup, It Drips From My Bones

You want blood, dripping from wounds you created? Do you like what you see? The color is pleasing?

I try to make it redder and better, thicker so the flow was slower. Showering you with life draining out of me like coins pouring from a slot machine. Now we’re dancing like Fred and Ginger, loving like Wade and Vanessa, singing like Stevie and Lindsay.

Careful not to slip on the blood, dear.

I try to make it pour, crimson and viscous, syrupy to savor the moment. The lights are going out, dear, and the night has moved in next door. Now we’re bringing it cookies and warming its house to welcome the darkness, to thank the torch coming from my mouth. It’s burning, but I’m so cold.

Does this make you happy? Is it what you will wash in, to cleanse your soul and pretend like this didn’t happen?

I’m withering, shrinking like a triggered Venus flytrap, closed in and inescapable death. You’ll take my vocal cords and make them say things they never intended. You’ll take my words and twist them like black licorice that no one will swallow. You’ll take my body and drag it through the streets.

I won’t be fit to clean the stables of Valhalla after this inglorious death. Ascend into oblivion dust, flicked from your smokestick. Stamped out in my blood before it gets washed away by the rain.

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