They're Coming

The hot breath of your close memory whispers and blisters my neck. 
Scrolls of my skin immortalize a cascade of your drowning, dying wish. 
You wore devotion like nobody I've ever seen, tattooed red on your wrists. 
Painful and deep it must have been. 
And I was safety, because it's what I have cradled in my own hands. 

Everyone can see me like this, dripping a trail of sugar sap behind me as I drag my branches. 
Hurriedly, I brush away creeping, crawling pests. 
Why do greater numbers of them appear? I must be rid, for I don't want my heart to tremble. 
I keep walking forward to her beat—She's an unsteady mistress, a casualty of her own wanting. 
Doesn't she know that love is kept warm between palms that align, blooming with the blood of their purpose?

I'll never forget how I spun a future out of fraying hope, destined for the fast unravelling.
Who were we but creatures contorting around a twisted truth, where at least one had to be sacrificed?
A jugular slice is all it took to kill a home—its prison of bone haunted by ghosts of amorous glances and movie lists. 
And where do the children go now? It's dark outside and the air sinks its whetted fangs. 
They're scared and their stomachs growl for something that tastes at all like our last meal together.

The bugs are leaving, but the wolves are coming, so be ready—
We will make peace with them.