Puncture

12.13pm. Domestic.   
   
A conscience always comes two seconds    
too late. You punctured my heart.    
I lived for the internal bleed,    
I felt you.    
   
You became the intestinal parasite, didn't you?  
...in my digestive tract,    
I was aware    
of you    
   
ever poking around    
at my    
organs.    
Of course, I expected no less.    
   
A pulmonary artery    
aneurysm took a final stab    
at my lungs. What a glorious Sunday!  
But it's Monday and you must try not to laugh    
   
when the 'sweet air'  
hits your face.    
They provide it    
to help you    
   
cope with the passing.    
Your brand is    
still, cold,    
on my trachea    
   
while I scream over    
the defibrillator paddles,    
while I scream this     
Monday grey.