CW: mild references to self-harm and body horror

Cinders, smoulders, ruin on earth

Like throats that grab me by the – wait – 

And haul me slow through rough and tar 

And scratch me flying up and up,

(Easy now, cantabile)

Singing night.

Whirling day, birth of thought

That far outstretch this meagre meet

Of eyes that swim and fill with ash

To blink a bloodshot world away

And drink in rough, and burn, and heat

Until she comes to kiss the dark.

I’d go gladly, by the end.

Artwork: Ben Beechener

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