baptiser:

inside my ribcage are cold, merciless hands.

they writhe and reach, every hour they touch and rearrange

reorganizing me in their image.

they grip my lungs tighter until each breath gags me

i feel their fingers in the back of my throat

tracing the futility of sunsets.

awareness of this suffocation begs me to lie down

in the poppies, in your shadow

warmer than my own.