mortician

she was made
for me
like a pine box
lined with satin
standing open
next to a
six foot deep
rectangle
in the middle
of the desert

she eyes me
like the shadows
in the noontime sky
slowly circling
spiralling closer
to where i lay
prone beneath
the anger apparent
in the storm
behind her smile

i want to yell
for her
to pick me clean
to rip the soft parts
off the exposed ivory
before the vultures
pick me clean
i want to
but i just stare at the
red trickle on her chin

my baby is
a wild west mortician
while i am just a somewhat
ambulatory corpse
lacking the good sense
to stay motionless
as the angels and demons
wage war over who
has to take
my withered nothingness

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