Putrescence

Putrescence

Nobody will love you, because they don't
want to be called a pervert for it.
It is tempting, it is flickering and recycled
and fleeting, the moon's curtain fanfare -
take these superglue sutures to
fuck shut your sores;
take caution, by proxy
for things not stopped by doors.
Nobody can love past the putrefaction
that's setting in right about now, a natural
process but not one they understand.
They are too scared to hold a girl bloating
with blowflies.
What a send-off you think it must be,
to burst in the arms of a boy, to bestrew
yourself into a splash painting on
turtleneck canvas.
Do you know branding is common practice
here? They brand their women.
I hear they are conceptualising
gentler searings, "no tears" irons,
to keep the flesh on bone this time.
You do not want flesh on bone,
you want to be known so intimately
that nobody will ever find every piece
of you that was scattered.
Love of you to them
is scalpel to larynx,
is cunt calligraphy,
is leaving things inside you
to see if you grow around them.
Love of you to them
is the breaking wheel,
is four walls no doors,
is grafting girl to perished skin
& praying their fucks are free from sin.
You deserve better
but all the better things
in this world can't
drown them out
because when they rot, you know,
they too are warm-welcomed by the soil.
They too disease their attendants.