skin of flaking parchment
Your ribs now entomb a heart that long beat for another. Each starving breath stolen for a home long lost. The possibility of us dissolving with each exhale. The stench of a life now dead, buried between your molars. A sticky, sweet syrup that pools beneath your tongue, a gentle drip that falls through you.
Even what little is left is acidic, the sharp sizzling sensation ripping through your organs. You no longer have to fear this, the growing unease that threatens to tear you apart, to split you open for all to see. There's nothing left to unveil my dear, no path left for us to take. Nothing that hasn't been stolen from you, from us. So as your blood finally dries, as your muscles pull, tighten and snap, as this house you so carefully, so lovingly built crumbles, know there will be no one to see you go.
No last words or shocked gasps. Your wishes never read, your corpse already desecrated for all to see, too little left to bury or mourn. You are all but spent my love, your only use left as a festering dinner-plate for the maggots. They dance between the ventricles of your heart, their pulsating bodies encircling the marks we all left on you, each mouthful a passing of memory for those that came before them.