Open up my ribcage to display
a paint palette, adorned with the crimson
of navy and green of the through.
Eloped to the stained bone of you
as it blinks, eating sand and caressing hymen
in lazy fits of ripe dismay.
We appreciate the hiss of wind that
flutters through the wounded throat,
a cloak of hazel; dry; net.
Don’t whistle without a care,
we’ll die and so will you.