Taint

Make your move, then.
Heaving and thrashing,
Remark on what fun we’re having.
Your endless chatter
Makes me want to crash through glass.


Follow through, please.
Grasping and clutching,
Trail the tracks of my retreat.
This growing sickness
Is not entirely your fault.


Call my name, yes.
Babbling and crowing,
Come find the space where I lie.
In this lasting cold
I ask of you one small thing.


Stand up straight, now.
Lurching and fumbling,
Swiftly cut off both my hands.
Everything I touch
Has the stink of perception.