Bloodshot eyes on pale white sheets,
panting with vein paints, pressing as
hard as possible,
to break from its holding space,
like flesh-grubbers to freshness.
Paint me a sign of your own lucidity,
without baking the prized apple
in your skull, not as easy as pie.
Hungry enough to eat the whole thing,
and close enough to death to taste
lavender and invasive roots
on your rot. Feel these sheets
close around you for an automatic
autopsy before you lose all pigment
in your skinned life.


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