The professor

is smiling

satisfactorily,

matter-of-factly,

face plain as dough

in the dull light.

Drive the enemy out,

within thyself

burns the doubt

that would entail

thy last meal.

A remnant of you

flickers in the silence,

quietly,

as though it was well-bred,

which you

were

not.

Ancient etchings are hung

in my portals of ungodly flesh,

like meat picked dry

and hanging in the unsavory breeze,

surrounded by the buzz

of insect-life

and green rot.

The knife is a careful instrument

of desire,

when wielded by the hands

of one who loves you not.

I awake to find

ruinous black strands

of twisted flesh,

creeping all across

my pale arms…

my fingernails are black and purple,

against the snow

of white white skin,

against the scrapings

I have torn down my thighs

in the hope

of calling you back.

You always did like decay,

I think,

though the coolness

made you hard to penetrate,

and still that much more

desirable.