1:18 6 hours till my demise would strike brutal and all too eager in its violence and i would be hungry, or maybe hunger is not quite the correct word. I do after all use it in contexts ritualistic by nature, i suppose i am a woman of faith after all. Hunger is not quite the right word, it would have been had i talked about my parched throat, an incubation of neurochemical warfare like an itch beneath a cauterized wound the tongue starts it all does it not? And it never ends Nausea perhaps accompanied by an inconsistent murmuring in the middle of my gut, a displaced heart is quite a tragedy, worse still- a loaned one long overdue (already the cavities inside me are bloated pockets of air/ a lack of equilbrium builds pressure until my ears pop/ nothing spills) (doctors attribute the eagerness of blood leaking back to structural inadequacy, valves reticent in transit / my heart works twice as much and still falls short/ its silence between thrums only exacerbates the compulsion — i like you quiet — ) (The diagnosis reads regurgitation, what incorrigible pretence, what lilting subterfuge) And so my organs fail me in tandem, they are equally opportunistic. Pools and pools of mercury swirl inside the most susceptible parts of me, liquefaction of the body i turn into a ruin of everything i could never be ( and was ) Ruin isnt a correct word here i suppose. They have after all known sublimity. What do you call a staggering lack of substance? A vessel soo devoid of its own existence it becomes a contradiction to its reality Was i perhaps led here? to this precise moment in time, no not one not once many of them, exhaustive plentiful - a prospering crop (cornucupia: feeds and feeds) if i knew better i would calculate the instantaneous demise of time if i knew better it would not round off to 12:00 or 2:57 ritualistic in nature it only knows how to pass yet some contradictions do unspool as most gruesome disgrace salvific for neither neither needles prickle my skin, a surgical extraction of salt (a dead weight) the dessicated air seeks to crystallize me in a cacoon of mock shame musk steeped rivulets find their way down my neck, a testament of decay , mold always does fester in choked stasis both lack and lack thereof ( a scalp stretched paper thin ) womb of rot veined with collapsing vessels, the walls glisten a dark, congealed slick thick as tar: swallows the wilted fruit (i lie) daimonic creature of absence exists upon a nullification of its state this too is war , is it not? some pretension woman, alas all decay does is spread its spore born tapestry, curtain of lacework hung now say, it is a contradiction born of predetermined fate, hammered into the ceiling i stare at every now and then tracing the metallic sheen with my senses attuned the helical threads part muscle like wet cloth a messy suture done in the dark is still a suture i taste iron so time too dares not claim dominion it too disbands its damning procession it recurs parasite. or perhaps decomposer would be a better word dig your clipped nails into this garbage machina decompose change consume\ invariance bleeds a constant nothing changes there is only soo much absence can create