the fangs
slide in just below the shoulder blades
their curvature more painful
that the devil's honey they gift to me
each cough
is a pane of glass i may have liked to keep
for a semblance of routine
but then, my eyes gave up on drapes long ago
poison
means nothing as a weapon
to one who's had a diet daubed with torment
that is one reason why the rising sun and i laugh
and let it all bleed to pretty up the future skies.
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