Pale blue spores of rot stare at you
From the broken and bloody tips of
My fingernails, white mildew kissing
The translucent shells of my eyelids
Gummed and crusted with dried fluids.
The reek of ammonia and embalming
Fluid assault your nasal passages,
Barely masking the rotten and putrid
Scent of death that lingers in the air of
The morgue, a blanket of decayed flesh.
You trace the constellation of scars that
Line my thighs, a map of brutality, a tale
Of survival, decades of memories
Preserved in the ink staining my skin,
Secrets housed in their black outlines.
You twine your fingers in the sea of spilled
Locks fanning across the surgical table,
My hair stiff and brittle between your
Fingertips, as you choke back the flood
Of tears brimming, poised to overflow.
Empty, hollow thoughts flit across your
Mind as you ponder what dark things I
Hid from you in life and what mysteries
I now carry to the grave, deep into the
Belly of the corpse-saturated Earth.
Your fingers claw desperately at my
Lifeless wooden flesh, as if you could
Peel away my exterior, piece by piece,
Releasing the truths only I knew, as if
Such an act could assuage your guilt.
Audra Burwell