As fingertips puncture skin to rake apart my stomach,
your nails slash harder with each piece of flesh that struggles out.
"It's only just a scratch." Removing all of the nausea.
From underneath the blood, your eyes shine deep into our deaths.
These stains smell like iron in a glass jar on the dresser.
I want to save this moment in the shrine of things we've made.
Veil the fucking weekend as a time to say, "It's over."
Heaven's in once severed smiles as memories dissolve.