Samuel Minier:

Writing in the Dark

Her skin’s deep under my nails,

but that’s not what’s int’resting, int’resting

Silk sheets make cheap grave clothes,

but they’re just im’tating, im’tating

Her husband rolls against my feet,

but he wasn’t the one intrudin’, intrudin’

I could bury us faster,

he and I,

but she’s the one entombin’, entombin’