in my bed

[plsgoawaywhoisthis]

the night was a confession in reverse —
two liars praying to the same old body.
her silhouette, a psalm of decay,
my mouth, a failed resurrection.

we didn’t speak.
syntax would’ve ruined it.
we just orchestrated collapse,
flesh against flesh,
like architecture grieving its own ruin.

her eyes —
twin black sermons of indifference,
mine —
a cathedral collapsing inward,
begging for relics that no longer believe.

the air hung heavy with aftermaths,
that thick, posthumous sweetness
of something once divine
now rotting in the open.

i touched her shoulder,
as if touching could absolve me,
as if redemption lived in epidermis.
but she was already ghost —
a pulse made of exit wounds.

when she came, it sounded like closure.
when i did, it felt like confession.
and then the silence —
dense, ecclesiastic,
like the world held its breath
and refused to name what we’d done.

you ever lie there,
naked beneath your own mythology,
and wonder
why grief wears such familiar skin?