Mold into tailored mattress, eyes adjust and find silhouette chasing static, I wish for the sun to quiet it's ache to burn,


Follow the woodwork with opioid fingertips, never stop dreaming, I hear only the vent screaming winter into the room,


Is this not the death you fell in love with, she asks.


It is where I will stay sewn into burnt fabrics,

Stay sleeping, wake just to chew on my powdered lovers, find my corpse again,


Weep not for the phantoms lingering on the walls,

Singing their estrangement,


Mother clings to my hell,

Always dreaming,
© cankered cupid