emptiness has fled as I lie
here teeming with more
life than any day before.
Are your hands soft?
Will you rest them on me?
Each finger a bullet, a feather’s
breath of lead to pierce my heart.
You may keep what you find.
Tattooed and painless the story
is writ proudly, my belly is wine dark
and seeping. Shadows crawl in veins
no longer silent, encompassing hands
that have released their misery.
Scatter seeds amongst
the writhing mass,
spontaneous generation will
yield a swarm. Flies or flowers,
either will join me as the food of gods.
.
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