The Morgue

ribcages are perfect metaphors for romance

crack open my ribcage 

and climb inside, 

find a home in these wilted flowers,

these rotting organs,

these broken bones.

does my heart still beat?

can you feel it?

wrap your hand around it and 

tug.

has it blackened? does it 

crack?

drop it

watch it smash

let the blood drip from your fingers

through the cracks like ink,

spilling, spilling, spilling, 

spilled.

and my heart lays there, on the 

linoleum

and it beats.

and it withers.

and it rots.

crack open my ribcage,

and climb inside,

dig out my organs and lay them

side by side.

do they look the same?

do they look like a home?