it's just
skin. i don't know what i want but it's not this,
and it doesn't help to hide these
ugly skeletons. (your control is still too shaky
to take care of them.)
bones become letters in envelopes
and this is so easy it'll make me dizzy.

i'll be buried with lace and communicated errors
lost on the line with digested pills and the smoke under my lips.
you're the ceremony's lost design of maturity. i apologize
to antlered armories with your memories and your words.
("sorry but it wasn't working out for me.")
your voice was a croon for molestation, adoration, excitation,
and mine was a coffin, a critical loss
of character prepared with formaldehyde.