Abriosis Still Blood
Left to clot, my still-blood that tight spot, inside rot,
painted words, all filled with lies. Cold Breath of
death, dressed up in bags. Watered down. Wandered alone.
Tied to skulls with regret, benign matter. Died, the
soul, day we met, plastic shattered. Wants to feast on
every soul, be her own death every day. Screams for mercy
and control, breath wreaks of sex and decay. Feasts on
still blood, lips dusty and grey. She’s our little
secret, decomposing every day. Blast at night, carnal
rights, danced till high, opened thighs, Funeral light,
pale dead eyes. Laid out open for business. She has
tricks, god as her witness. Imagine the possibilities,
Lifeless and willing to please. Left to clot, my still-
blood. That tight spot, inside rot. Blinded eyes. Goose
bumps, we’ll never get you, but bent over the toilet,
she’ll let you writhe. Cum into death’s eyes, we serve
screams, still blood, and flies.
