Arthiritis.

She spits her stench inside of me.
It tastes like abortion, before the depression.
Dear reader, please decipher my obituary
and force Her to read it out loud.
Let Her voice hold my skeleton.
Maybe she'll reminisce of what she
tucked away, in diary, a notepad, a bathroom wall.
Maybe she'll recall her brittle fingers hugging the black devil.
I've yet to fight my way into hell though,
so please, Dear reader, be patient.
An asylum is no place to let the children run.

Dear reader, breathe,

take a deep breath,

envision your breath as a red snake,
feel her in your lungs. She is happy in the warm mucus.
That is poetry. This, is something else.
This is a serpent slithering around your genitals.
I've embraced Her before. Time and time again.
She has become my lover.
Oh, and She is quite rough.
Not at all like the others.

Dear reader, I give you my sincerest apology,
please, just relax for a moment, I've almost finished.

I have been chased through the Garden of Eden,
and started a fire under the apple tree.
That is where I met Her.
Arson is our son. I am sin.
I am Anne Sexton's forgotten body,
I am Edger Allen Poe's mangled eye,
I am Sylvia Plath's tainted blood.

That is Poetry. This, this is something else.