Clotted Excavation

Clot.

Clot again.

Three times over, clotting over over over again now.

His arms are around me and his tongue in my eyes.

Something about the magnitude of it, gliding along the white lights and across the valley into the deep depths of our vanity.

And you steal my canines from me, and you steal my ability to think critically. And you treat me like I’m finite because I am, but I don’t want to be reminded. Nobody wants to be reminded of that, lapping up the bare morsels of you.

You put me on hold, hanging by the trachea from the end of an Oak tree root, in some parking lot near your parents old home. You cut me down now, and leave me out to dry. Cut me down, every time I’m eluded by your love.

Tis not poetry, but auto fiction and real fragmented disarray. A brain aneurism. Something seizing inside.

This isn’t what you picture but it is something you have to burrow into and excavate out of my chest cavity. Come on, you can do it, even the weakest of us can. Come on weakling, borrow deeper and get all the way inside the juicy red and distraught ribcage. I’ll meet you there, just push a bit further.