the slow butcher

My lying beneath

The body of scalpels

Is my transforming

Of my garden of fevers,

Like wonders encased

Upon branches,

Into action.

He may melt,

We may fuse,

Though the blade

Is still wielded

And his knuckles

As white as

Mine are bleeding.

I taught myself

These cannibalistic natures

Plenty early enough

To pick apart sick cycles

And let them seep from my mouth,

Lush and sultry

Like pomegranate arils.

But are these sacrifices

To selfish zombies

And somatic warfares

Reversible by any means?

When a man devours

Must he also eat?

My body, nearly split now,

Tart from blood and spit and tears,

Yearns for truth

Before we feed.

Are you afraid?

Of you, or of me?

- m. rose