I am nothing to you, but flesh bound in pity and waste A dislocated voice from your memory that screams in the night A body that longs to be found A sunken recess on your grounds Where the waste from your lush oaken table absorbs in the weeds and then feeds my dejected disease
I am nothing to you, but residual heart-laden slime Buried so deep beneath turning calender pages and lime A disgrace My pictures all turned on their face As you race to scrape off the flowers i placed on the lid with my hands to your closed casket heart
I will strike you at night when your heart is not guarding the door I will creep in your sleep and your tears will languish on the floor You'll awake confused by this dramatic state And you'll hate the silence inside you, and call for me but I've been crushed by your closed casket heart
