morning lines #129

In the story of my decline, fine metal mesh, the shape of moth wings, seals my
​miserable mouth.
 
In the story of my decline, duct tape binds these still-buoyed breasts until they’re broken, boarded, and blessed.
 
In the story of my decline, an oily shop rag finds a dry space between my anus and urinary meatus, laying the desert at my feet.
 
In the story of my decline, my navel retreats like an eclipse to somewhere behind the moon, leaving a smooth, sagging belly for only me to marvel at.