Work Text:
death sticks to you
like sand on your shoes
soon you find it in your bed
like salt water in the lungs
like blood dried brown into the paint
like the pollen of funeral flowers
on the sleeve of your first suit jacket
it tastes
like bitter medicine in a dry mouth
its sound is voices grown cold and sour
it’s the grey silence of a hotel room
and the indifferent beep of the voice mail
it feels like a pain in the neck
that is your feeble black joke as it spreads again to your shoulder
and your arm
and through your chest
seeping out from your waterlogged heart
and you fight it until the floor meets your head again
just once
it looked like the pattern of mum’s old crockery
that someone gave you as a wedding present
it rains on your dreams
it laps at the edges of your house
death speaks its keenest words at night
when your skin is too raw for you to be held
when you wake in a pool of sweaty moonlight
and no one else is there to corroborate your story
or lie to you and say it’s not real
each morning, when you’re still alive
your mind’s edges are soaked with it
you walk about all day dripping black water
but you don’t care anymore if people notice
maybe you hope they will
death sticks to you
like the oldest friend