the chill is black over ripened skin flayed open with maggots and caked blood. like the word on your lips as it cracks across your tongue and breaks your teeth. had i not been ruined, had i not been. i heave out morsels from the pit of my stomach and stuck between the gum and cheek with a measure of bile like no other. green and red, chunks of forgetting, longing, a sense of gained ground pitched over a porcelain bowl, flushing it all away to stand up again.