The Mattress Still Has Your Body On It And I'm Not Sure Why

The Petals That Grow From Your Lips And The Roses From Your Thighs

She menstruates deep, crimson blood in an endless stream over the bedsheets, and she screams through stomach bile and corkscrew flavored wine.
Somewhere different, not here, she would be screaming through life in her stomach, pushing, pushing, little feet, little hands and cradles and lullabies out through herself. Instead, she screams through anger and withdrawals, screaming for the pacifier laced with heroin to be placed in her tenderly broken hands and crack pipes to birth from her poor, misplaced womb.

The emptiness in her is irreparable, her deep, harrowing resentment settled so deep in her back she contorts into demons that feed on fingernails and stale bread.
When she walks through the door, her cravings ravage her body, devouring her whole. She fiddles with the locked cabinet, searching for her cancer in the cupboards.
She doesn't look at me, she never truly does.
But now her eyes avoid mine like she sees men in white suits and loud sirens and IV drips and group therapy in my pupils. I watch her pollute her bloodstream and all I want is for her to look at me and I don't care she's killing herself, I don't care, I just want her to look at me with her horrid eyes and tell me that I'm more than pink solace in her grim, poisonous world. I want her hands on my shoulders and my collarbones and my lungs and everything that I am and I want her to judge me and squeeze me dead or push me to my knees and let me have a taste of her soft and treacherous mercy.

All I get is a broken grin from the stove, towering over a spoon. Her smile is halved, unnaturally soft, full of regret and some type of sick love buried beneath seas of rapids and storms of dying birds.

"I think I'm ready now," she says.

"For what?" I say.

"To go." She says.

I know all too well where she's ready to go, I hate it and I love it and it's sick and it's already decided. She still doesn't look.

We don't say very much. She answers me through a soft smile from the spoon, through the needles in her syringe. 
Her nose bleeds first.
Then her body tumbles to the ground, light, thin.
Her mind leaves last, huffing out from her ears in clouds of smoke heavy like rocks.

I'm shaking her. Hours rush downstream in frenzied water that never ceases crashing against rocks, bashing. I hear the birds chirp, it makes me angry. Nature and its nerve to wave its leaves at my face, at hers.

I braid her hair with her head in my lap, I feed her breakfast and lunch and dinner and I kiss her forehead until it turns green and blue and she smells of devastating rot. I fall asleep tangled in her bleeding body, her cold, unmoving body, knotted in her pain and her weakness and her soul.
Her headstone is carved out by rusted fingernails in erratic darkness, her grave dug by a madman who tears his head out at night and feeds dead girlfriends their dinners. Her body is stained with perverse love, her cold, stalled stomach dissolving into itself, boiling, groaning. Her still esophagus, I'm waiting for her to swallow, waiting for the bob of her throat and the gentle kiss of her breath.

I dig her out and I bury her again and I dig her out and I bury her again and I hold her and greet her and escort her back into the wet ground again and again and again.
Violins that play, violins that scream, screech.
I'm yelling through nights on pink gingham over her, punching the ground. Eating the soil, reaching her. Tearing my clothes and my skin and the moss from the stone, bloody knuckles. Fleshless face, all muscle and bone and blood. I'm raw, I'm naked and exposed to be prodded at, toyed with, rubbed and tapped and kicked and killed. I wear her bones and I strap her arteries to my cardium in a plea.

Her jacket hit the ground, the zipper catching on the wall and stumbling to the carpet. Her mouth on mine, glued together in the chatter of teeth and bites on lips. Her cheeks littered with moonlight that seeps in through the windows and spills over in a rolling boil to her eyes and back out from her ears over her breasts and her old school photos.

The clock is slow, I love her I love her I love her in all of her lovelessness, I rip out every single eyelash and every single fingernail and hide them in the place behind my eyes, and I hear them scratch wires when I blink. I feel the blood leak from every socket and every yell and every ant that scurries across the floor.

I want to be underground, crushed by her weight and the heat of the soil. Conscious when the worms devour me, my screams muffled by her skin and the heat of the coffin, I want to scream and be pitied and I want her I want her I want her. I crave her emptiness and her starving, everything, I want everything and I wonder if I killed her or if she did it all to herself.

Lips and hands in her living room, my hands can feel everything she is, splayed out underneath me, she knows I can feel it and she winces, waiting for the bite.

I'm tired, tired, tired, tired.

The alcohol reaching its horrendous crescendo, misplaced legs twisting and turning in warped space, we're drunk on each other's skin and sweat and breath.

Pills in thin plastic and powder in hollow capsules, it all fits in my crevices perfectly, we were made to die like this, it feels good to die like this. I wonder if it's how she felt, her mind screaming so loud it pierces every color and it all being pushed down so hard down, down further into her throat, down into her feet until everything is nothing and it evaporates in thick air, and horrible, cruel bliss takes its place, a successful distraction of your soul slipping out through your knees. 

She's telling me to join her, "bury yourself down in the soil for me! Cry for me and debase yourself for me and beg for me and glow, glow brighter than you ever have. Make everything you've ever felt twist together and entwine into a beacon that soars up to heaven or down to hell." It's all up to her, all up to her, it always has been. She's God, I'm the sinner, I succumb to it all and I spread my arms wide and beg to be pitied, not for mercy, but for pity and for darkness and for peace with her presence far away and close.

The soil rises above me, piling over itself, covering me. I sink down, I find her body and her tender fingers, gnawed at by the maggots, and I hold her tight, closing my eyes, waiting for her stringy beacon to reach mine, explode in a climax of everything that has ever been. Then I'll understand and she will too, the uneven scales and the lives littler than ours, it's warm under the soil.

It is warm under the soil.