blushes

Come sooner, Death


The wait hurts me like a habit.
The burn of the failure
of my lungs should sicken me.
I've been taught to think death
were wrong for all of us.
I am only here.
A stretcher holds no congruence for me.

The apocalypse is in my home.
I'm feeding the ash recumbent.
All of my model figurines implode
into their own scowling certainty
while all I have done is stayed alive,
posing as either one, waiting
for a face to develop before the drop,
before the implode.

This home is about as good as dead.
I'm waiting for my trachea to subside.
I'm waiting to walk out of this ivory
skin like the snake asked me to.
I'm waiting for the faces of my loved
to fade, in a space in the sky,
in the stars, in the faint glitter of planets beyond.
I am waiting.

I don't want to recover.
I want to pluck my feathers
and leave myself for food.

Power rolls by as a skull.
A choking masquerade
could take me any day.
Let me go without consideration,
without loss, without remembrance.
This earth is not a faint of me.