crescent moon imprints from the nail
biting, tasting the thick of my skin the sullen
thumph of sour blood-beating
i wonder that it does not draw crimson,
does not bisect the pulse
oh but i wish it would!
because a wound with blood and pus or
the murmur and hiss hisshiss of decay
do not signify death
but through the wound,
like an open mouth they let small screams of life.
so today I will extricate myself from flesh
and then latch onto it in
months i feel particularly greedy
a salvation.
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