On my bed of cobras

I find a kingdom of venom.

This is where I

unearth my flesh,

burrowed within black fangs

like ebony.

This is where I bleed

blue, punctured and

stippled with pointilism

of poison,

but the cornflower nectar

does not bide well with 

flickering hoods and

rippling scales

(the cobras sleep very lightly),

so I sweep a blanket over my

wounds and listen to the

hisses of a disturbed slumber.

This is where I hide 

my fear;

I clutch it between my teeth and

am buried beneath the

the snakes.

I rather enjoy the massive hollows 

in my chest where my 

ribcage should lie,

carved underneath a 

heavy, slithering weight

(but tell no one

that it actually hurts).

On my bed of cobras

I find a kingdom of venom.

This is where I pull

myself apart

every night before

I sleep.