his mouth is slick against mine, his skin hot to the touch, bubbling over. the sun burns but in this world we are used to drowning. he makes paper trees with his hands and they blister in the terrible, pulsing heat: everything is withering to bones silver only in the moonlight. i watch it go: an ocean of wood razed by fire. the moon watches over the carnage, and smiles.
YOU ARE READING
please don't die
Poetryafter dark beautiful things grow and fester, kissing your mouth, eviscerating your insides.
