Split my spine
And stain my veins black.

You—
who wrought the ships of our dreams
out of ironclad promises,
Affections offered as
butter for the bread at my supper,
milk for my poppy,
Yet your tools were but the ashes
of a mercury tongue.

Your humours do not humor me.

The thrumming of your blood
was only the bile and phlegm
Of the corpses that came before me,
Of the bodies that will come after me,
Of the peeling paint that lines my skin,

Until some vengeful pit swallows you
And spits you out into dust.