Mort is the anointed bride of giving up
She doesn’t want a wedding ring, she caresses your skull.
I’ve seen what giving up looks like and it is not undressing yourself from the struggle you wore.
It’s not as simple as removing a garment.
Giving up is the colour of gangrene,
The colour of Jackson Pollock splattered crimson bowls,
The colour of necrosis having it’s way,
It’s the colour of see through transfusion bags,
It’s white hospital sheets,
It’s salient but salty tears of goodbye to what you had and what you can’t live without.