fearless,
I am not.
I picture myself
smashed
organs all
pouring out
like milk-
they are white
and beautiful
like baby spiders
in an egg sac
but they
crush
poetically
against the ground
and a homeless
man
finds his
supper
the next day, these
fat pale
sausages
I call
fingers and
liver
and kidneys
and then
I will
live inside
him forever,
a beating
memoir
in that red red
ribcage
like worms
inside a coffin.