Give me

Poem.

Her body, his, presses into mine,
which is hers, which is his, doesn’t
matter anymore. Who is it tonight.
It doesn’t matter. Give me, your
breath. Give me what I’m lacking,
Give me something, to make my
heart move. My blood, the pills,
are stale. So very cold, unmoving,
so punch my chest. I don’t care
who it is tonight. Beat my heart.
Make me feel like I’m living, make
me feel. He laughs. He kisses my
eyes. He gently slides his hand,
onto my throat, and tells me,
to live, you must be able to die.
So he squeezes, and he whispers
First Corinthians 15:43 to me,
and her fingers move, from my
neck, to my chin, leaving a trail
of blood, of nail polish that has
yet to dry, and I laugh, as I grip
her thick neck, his frail neck,
and cry. No, this is how you
do it. My arm tightens, and
bruises her mocking smile, his
sympathetic frown, and I cry.
No, this is how you give life, my
fingers move, from her neck, to
his heart. I kiss it, and tell them,
to live, you must be able 
to be reborn each day. He leaves. 
She takes her perfume, and 
once again, stale, I am alone, 
I am dead.