Is this how it is

The ruin scratched into your forearm has grown teeth. They keep trying to convince you there is an end to this. You tell them: have you ever bitten through the rind of your exhaustion. How sour. How sting-nettle. How forelorn and free-verse. When you forget, the ruin grabs your hand, peels away each fingernail like a flower petal you wish upon. Some sizzles can drown out your collected howls. They say: you never question mark; you only comma. You say: when a body is (finally) found, it is nothing but the death pressed into it from living trying to stay alive.