Poets should never make ghost children.I whisper cheap metaphors into your needy ears until, like funeral flowers, they rest upon the atlas of your mind. You with your napkin love letters and cloudy storm eyesare the only one to ever make my scaled spine quiver. But, my veins ache from consuming too much ink. I am gagging on black blood as it spills from your fingertips to rest upon my lips. You asked me once if I could read the words carved into my limbs like prophecies of you and I we were written in the universe of freckles dotting my thighs. I tried to plot constellations along this neurotic cadaver skin and only managed to contradict you.