The Detached

We die,
Welcoming Bluebeards to our darkening closets,
Stranglers to our outstretched necks,
 Stranglers, who neither care nor
 care to know that
 DEATH IS INTERNAL.

We pray,
Savoring sweet the teethed lies,
Bellying the grounds before alien gods,
 Gods, who neither know nor
 wish to know that
 HELL IS INTERNAL.

We love,
Rubbing the nakednesses with gloved hands,
Inverting our mouths in tongued kisses,
 Kisses that neither touch nor
 care to touch if
 LOVE IS INTERNAL.