I am nothing to you, but flesh bound in pity and waste 
dislocated voice 
from your memory that screams in the night 
body that longs to be found 
sunken recess on your grounds 
Where the waste from your lush oaken table 
absorbs in the weeds 
and then feeds my dejected disease
I am nothing to 
you, but residual heart-laden slime 
Buried so deep beneath turning calender 
pages and lime 
disgrace 
My pictures all turned on their face 
As you race 
to scrape off the flowers i placed on the lid 
with my hands to your closed 
casket heart
I will strike you at night when your heart is not guarding 
the door 
I will creep in your sleep and your tears will languish on the 
floor 
You'll awake confused by this dramatic state 
And you'll hate the 
silence inside you, and call for me but I've been [bad word] 
by your closed casket heart.