The mattress wicks my illness
Gallons of sweat sucked deep to its creaking core
I live in a dent, a small version of a crater
As if I am some sort of fallen meteor
There is a strip of pictures on my bed stand
Of me from years ago
Making faces in a photo booth alone
I like knowing it will be there when I’m dead
Like the constellations of star graveyards in the sky
Proof through faint flickers that something once shone
Somewhere in a pile of papers I have asked to be burned
Upon my mattress full of fuel
Like some sort of viking
Who traveled great distances upon his ship
Arrived at shores lined with savages
And eventually died in battle
Having finally found
Something worth dying for
Through the fever I dream
Of lit arrows streaking the sky
On their way to my funeral pyre
In a life sapped of romance
This is my poetry
To finally be consumed
Burning brilliantly for once
Blotting out the stars for a moment with smoke
To be the point of focus for eyes not my own