beneath our weathered wooden floorboard lays

a rotted plum

a pitted, gutted, worm home

akin to a flushed and plucked corpse


i hoped for tenderness

no skin to peel, only warmth hung loose, falling off the bone

i didn’t wish for it

but your blood dripped juicy from the corners of my mouth

 i fear i wasted it.

i drifted south to our clawfoot tub

but i couldn’t bring myself to bathe

instead i knelt at its feet

and readied my skin for staining

brandished by your soft fictitious pulse

a reminder that i’ve sat in gray for far too long


swell and red and smeared orange