bury me somewhere,
without your coordinates to nail me steadfast
to that iron crucifix of latitude and longitude.

even as i scribble this, my finger-bones are splintering skywards
under the oppressive weight of your molten gaze.
and cataracts of inky blood—streaming from
my sulfur-streaked knuckles on the page—are rivers run dry of metaphor.
only deserts of skinless truths meet them at the mouth,
folding histories back inside my weathered lips
with your earthworm tongue.

bury me only if you promise not to look for these bones
somewhere in a distant starfield or a writhing ocean of magma.
so i can play among the unborn languages,
new letters crawling in my veins like millions of mirror-winged beetles,
and paint the lone eye on the dark side of the moon—that last window
to the abyss—blind.