I would rip the black rot out of myself with my bare hands
If you said my name the way you used to.
I imagine it has weight now.
A soaked thing.
Clotted roots braided through my lungs,
Latched onto the soft verbs of my heart.
I would dig until my fingers forgot they were fingers,
Until bone learned the whine of hunger.
I would split my ribs like wet wood,
Let the rot scream as it lost its dome.
I would lift it in the air,
Bleeding, stupid,
And say, see,
I made a room for you again,
If you just come home.
But even as I swear it, the vultures laugh through my bones,
Because promises sound thin when trust is already rotted,
And I know these words weigh nothing to someone I already let down.
Thus once more began the night.