then leave me here with broken bones,
with broken heart and home,
don’t give me hope of ampersands
nor sleep in beds of loam.
though it may seem peculiar now,
my dreams were once of death;
my childhood then poisoned with
a gram of tainted breath.
the month of may would soon have razed
illuminated words
that seek to find some meaning
in your low tangential worth.
i wish to break apart from you,
and leave behind your filth.
but now i find: to bury you
is better for my health.