Rancid Organs

Grasping at straws to keep

going, her heart is a split

pomegranate.  Atriums

empty.  Both ventricles

picked dry.  Cell by cell

plucked from her still breathing

corpse—all done with the tartness

tickling your taste buds, the rind

in her chest is there to rot with no seeds

left.  She drags herself to her non-stop

graveyard shift.  Your lips are stained

various shades of scarlet

by your fingers.

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1 Comment

  1. Sounds like the hard-times continue there on the lake…wishing you the best.


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