forensic scientist:

they're / clients

stale breathes of those left unbreathing; their skins pale but there’s something about it. fingernails kept growing, you urge to clip the secrets off of them. as the tongue’s dangling, trying to taste what’s left. when things are left unmoving they seem so pretty-there’s an innocence to them. 

t i m e / d o e s / d a m a g e

are we willing to admit, things are better left unsaid? we’re dressed before we’re buried--why’s that? we can’t face the world without pretense, so we can’t face an afterlife with playing pretend. if i had a nickel for every time i faced a dramatic event i’d be a rich man; then i’d make you promise i’ll be buried with my riches hidden in the folds of my skin so i have something to offer the heavens.

cold / blooded / viruses

disease embraces the cadaver before crawling its way onto your skin: claws chipped and naked, tips dipped in desire; skin slime and laced with poisoned promises. “too close for comfort” the saying goes, something you only know when your bones have burned and pieces of you lay in ashes picked up by wind. hand a broom the corpse’s hand.

part / of / the / job

if the fountain of youth existed, it’d put you out of business. that’s why you stained the maps by your blood and took small pieces of them, sewing them into your skin and braiding them into the bits of your hair. after you’ve bathed your life in test results revolving around the dead, nothing messes with your head. when you’re asked to take the teeth of a dead man, you start collecting them in your hands, and their clattering sounds like bells of a marching band.