I've got this bad habit
keeping on to jagged relics
harboring oceans of stained, discarded pits
of long-consumed fruits
original sin lining my stomach
blocking my ventricles,
sliding over one another
Plates, reptilian and tectonic
thirsting for the wearing blood of old wounds 
reopened in their passing.

I've got this bad habit
falling back, twisting and crushing
contorting backward, downward, deeper
into coffin-sized plaster
disguised with sinister velvet linings
my body, too large and clumsy and spindled
bend backward into these grotesque shapes
all made in pain, boiling for hours-- days even, 
all to please you, but left to stand at altars built
in places, select far-fetched corners
so you'd never stumble across them.

Not in a million fucking years.
bury me