Drip ichor from between my ribs, you cellar things that huddle in that chalky cage, and stain my fingers frostbit with your vileness.
Blood-worms, artery-deep and craven, burrow deeper and through the tissue that holds together, find the last rotting beams in my tumbledown walls and tear their soggy fibers one from another. ‘Till they collapse, bubble and ooze, hot and iron.
Spider-clever, tangled dark lines over and under and through, mad dancers over a fissure-cracked ballroom floor, dance on. Bring down gold-booted feet on rifts already wide and split them. Step heavy, and spread all through.
Dragonflies, many-eyed, flutter in my chest, flutter flint-winged frantic. Down and down, tumbling. Fan great glassy wings; each beat a laceration and breath, too quick, agony.
Burst free, you creatures. Find a fitter cage.
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