purify

I can still feel you, pulsing underneath my skin. I rub my fingers against it, but dirty skin flakes won't get me any closer to you. You once warmed my bloodstream but now you're taking up too much space, bursting into my cranium to finger your coldness nerve-deep. Have you found my soul yet? Oh, it's so cold.

I finger the trigger, and wonder if you'll finally come out once there's nothing capping my spinal cord. Or should I keep my skull intact, with its grin mimicking your deathwhite smile? I should burn my tainted fingers first; the smell of gasoline has always been more appealing than your curls. But the bathtub's already brimfilled with bleach, and this skin feels a little bit too heavy on me.

I couldn't have you touching me all over, tracing my shoulderblades with your pixie breath, skin on skin while you claw me from within. Oh, I burned, and now this filthy membrane will too. I'll set you free.

I sink in. I'm enveloped. I'm accepted into the warmth; it embraces me like a friend that knows me. The fumes don't gag me; I haven't breathed in ages. I'm lightheaded; my mind floats up on the smoke of my body. I'm hot. Oh, it's hot it's hot it's hot.

The liquid blooms crimson with flames and I stare. Heat is pain and touch is pain and love is pain and what is feeling then? For some reason it still matters and I lay back and think about you and your warmth and your fingers and your lips. I wonder if my fingers still smell like your hair and if there'll be enough of my shoulderblades to breathe on and how many vertebrae you need to lay on. I wonder why my arteries are icenumb while my nerves are on fire.

I don't know if I can still feel you. Have you found my soul yet?

I sink into the water and breathe in the burning.