Shroud

I want to cut out my organs
proffer them up, beating and red
dirty pretty things lying
still as death, wrapped in silk.
Milk teeth white with secrets
stark bone,
hollow with regret - one breath
exhaling fingernails; crescent moons,
luminescent with guilt, dressed
in sorrow desperate for utterance.
The stuttered sounds of eyelids shutting in the night
lungs filled with candlelight and silver flash
gash lips useless and stained with so much unsaid.
Silent epitaphs treading words
as heavy as a grave
the weight of a hole
that malignant,
spreads.