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Matt Gilbert





Grim Reaper Roleplay                            



Your kneecaps are the eggshells we step

cautiously on so as not to disturb life,

cirrus clouds adrift on your ribs

from teaching me to use the edge of my hand,

now you ask I be the death of you.

I put on the black coats guests left on the bed.

Stalk the doorway, built with bleach

in the style of your mother the last time

you saw her body, a candle set

in your mouth to light the way

for wax to form you slow lips.

Death had such sweet hands on her.

We don’t remember anymore what we dream

but your nipples stand like chess pieces

when I take the best part of you in my mouth.

To pleasure yourself think of the sun eroding

the surface of Roman marble, stripping off

the worked color of paint you wear,

revealing the bone until your bed

is a garden of statues with the heads

removed and replaced with our heads,

so that after, after finished, even after

it explodes, your heart will be a sex symbol. 



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