I Touched Death 15.25

I touched death’s icy hand
and peeled back my crying skin
glued on
with false hope
safety pinned with lies.

This couldn’t be him
who
had captured my heart
cradled me in his hot embrace
searing, empty promises.

This wasn’t him, in this shiny black casket
in this frozen parlor.

This was a wax mannequin
an empty shell
pumped full
of foul juices
preserved like the frogs
ready for dissection
in 10th grade biology

I was dreaming.

My fingers touched his
hard and fixed
his death mask
distorted smile

carefully dressed in a suit.

I thirsted for his affection
slit without warning
on that dark haunted road
black as a tar
black as a bottomless well
yearning for the splash.

Frozen screams
skated across the green bog

trapped

beneath thick black ice
fists hammering an opaque ceiling
tagged and trapped in the horror zone
waiting for some sign
that I could still see him.

Shredded like a rag doll
sliced by hot steel
by a drunken monster in a black Cadillac
blood drained,
organs extracted
at no extra charge.

Waiting for one last damp kiss
before his appointment
with Mr. Grim.

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