It’s in the way we bloomed together
and in the way we fell apart:
wound tight and scraping
rough against the softest parts,
to claw-caress, and sting to soothe.

All that’s left now are the ugliest parts.
The looming shadow of two naked vultures
circling each other in anticipation,
plucking out feathers to keep warm
and choking on air we once shared freely.

In dying, I have torn apart
the twisted ropes that held us together.
In killing, you have ripped me open
and watched me bleed into you,
mixing disease with desperate, prickling tongues.

The night you clung to me in apology,
I dreamt of living in your skin—
crawling deep into your belly
to crack you apart and hear
your heart beat from the inside.

Perhaps this is domestication,
Siamese in a tumored symbiosis,
existing and not inside our radioactive box.
How long can we be both
dead and alive?