rot.

 i pull the straps to tighten the mask of my human disguise,
while forced to perched; forever balanced, perfectly atop knives.
this self-fulfilling prophecy is an inevitable early, demise
from bleeding dry atop the pulpit upon which i self-aggrandise.
whet the steel of blunted blades against my flaking skin,
follow worms down rabbit holes used to burrow their way in.
break these brittle bones and strip the flesh away from rot
while i recall the things i've learned about properly tying knots.