my body is sticky with marmalade

stirred by the hand of a woman I no longer recognize

ants crawl over my flesh, seeking sweetness,

but there is only bitterness to be found

my sweat and salt have soured your sugar,

leaving an acquired taste in your mouth

flies buzz above me as if I’m already slaughtered

my left hand itches to swat away the droning,

but I must not draw blood from their incessancy;

my revenge would be written off as provocative

I must let nature have its way with me, 

must let it run its course

the earth composes my decomposition,

and yet I will not give voice to my complaints

even when only my bones remain,

scattered haphazardly, picked clean,

the vultures having satisfied themselves,

they will not protest their fate

they will merely lie as bones do: quietly