THE ANNEALED HALLS OF DEATH

What is rotten cannot be whole ever again.

The roots have grown amidst my bones, taken my heart into its crags. It twists its gnarled fingers with every apology you whisper against my temple.

Flowers cannot grow from rotten soil. --but the weeds shall try.

The depths are quiet, but your ruin lingers. I know your voice, your face, I know you are a lie-- And I am your puppet no longer.

The smell of ash, and fire, and smoldering ruin are all I know. The world smells like your bed, like your hair. Hot like your lips on my ear. Your words are poison, and I crave them still.

Brother, oh my brother, Blood of my blood, your left scars upon my shoulders where your hands had been.