Cockroach In Skin

AA T
A cigarette in a nearby city is lit.
The smoker hacks up her lungs of the
cancerous stick.
If you listened closely,
you'd note that it was in the same way
my throat constricts,
in a manner
that forces me to vomit
up someone else's
heart.
You say your lips are cold,
but I say you're wonderful.
Let my fingers dig out what warmth
your veins carry.
Because your cries don't matter to me
and burns aren't all that flattering,
coagulation makes you
all the more
pretty.
They say your body
radiates diamond-
rivaling beauty,
but I say you're
a murder scene.
Lips dribbling out
tempting collagen filled
lines
that are fit enough for publicity,
and the thread that
keeps your scar-tissue
skin ever
so inviting
seems to only be
tightening.
What KNIFE should this tray
carry?
After all, to you everyone is catering!
And to this
endless
massacre parade,
should I too embark
upon this masquerade?
OR will the blood let slip
these truths
so
carefully laid
and let me ogle
at what a monster you have
made?

An autopsy should be performed.
Let me peel back
your skin,
file down the bone,
and show what's underneath.
A HELLISH array of
wires and
scars and
ruby teeth and
razor bones and
power cables and...
God, it's so disgusting!
Yet I want to take every tangle
and press you
into me.
Though I seethe at what I am
seeing,
the blood rushes,
and I can feel your heart
beating.
It really is a wonder as to how
your blackened lungs
keep you
breathing.