It is Friday when I unzip my skin 

in the dark of his mausoleum.

I expose my sinew to the sting of rotten air

leave my flesh folded 

on the corner of a tombstone. 

He strikes a match against 

the rough of his bone

greets me with cigarette 

ash jammed amidst crooked teeth. 

I soak my nerves in vodka 

until I am drunk enough to necromance our love.

I let him trail my veins 

with filth beneath his fingernails

place his molding tongue 

in the space between my thighs

take me to his grave and 

cover me in his decomposition.