Asphyxia.
A skull full of water,
heavy pressure pounding in time
with your heart, where to start?

Maybe, darling, with your fingers
in the place that knows them best,
across my neck. Bruise me,
fallen fruit. Indigo blue.

Toeing the line. Yours or mine?
I would not begrudge you, O Love,
(O, Sweetness.) My last putrid;
hateful and defiant breath,
be fast.

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